


Like Real People Do

by chameleon_666



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: (eventually) - Freeform, Alternate Universe - Fae, Angst, Bardic Magic, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Jaskier | Dandelion, Fae Magic, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Meetings, Fluff, I think I've earned my slowburn tag at this point, Idiots in Love, Inspired by a Hozier Song, Life Debt, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Song: Like Real People Do (Hozier)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 10:21:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 55,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23469826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chameleon_666/pseuds/chameleon_666
Summary: A twilight that refuses to wane, the lingering scent of clean, bitter dandelion milk, and a strange man buried deep in the soil of a peaceful bog.Or, Geralt finds a traveling companion in the strangest of places.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 411
Kudos: 1408
Collections: Melo Mapo's Favorite Witcher Pairings





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Me, having only passing knowledge of the Witcher universe and a vague inclination of how fae work: what if I wrote a fae Jaskier au. 
> 
> Enjoy. Not sure how long this'll get but I hope you stick around for the ride.

Within the past week or so, spring had finally emerged from beneath her heavy blanket of snow. The weather was lovely, and the sky was coloured violet, pink, and gold with the vibrant twilight of the first real warm day of the season. The last hazy bits of daylight settled over the bog that Geralt worked in as the sun reached down toward the horizon. With the bright sun and gentle temperature had come a great deal of melt, the snow and slush washing away and exposing the dead, half-rotted leaves from the autumn before. The earth stank sweetly of decay.

Geralt pulled at the soft, swampy earth with calloused and bloodstained hands. The sickly sweet-smelling peat soil caught in his fingernails as he scooped handful after handful away. It was bad practice to leave the remains of poisonous things lying around. Far better to bury them, keep them out of reach of wandering children or animals who didn’t know better. Especially so close to a village. The head off one of the things was all he’d need to fulfill the contract. He’d take it to town, collect his coin, and be off. 

Geralt sat back from the pit and wiped the sweat from his scowling brow. He looked over the landscape, dotted with cattails at the water’s edge, yellow wildflowers amongst the tall grass. The section of the wetland he clawed at was mostly moss. It would be a beautiful day, a beautiful place, if not for the work he did. 

And he wasn’t finished yet. The damned Archespores weren’t going to bury themselves. When Geralt went into town to collect his payment, he was definitely going to invest in a shovel. Something lightweight and small that he could carry on his belt, or that would fit inside Roach’s saddlebag. He did like the feeling of the soft earth on his hands - something wholesome about it - but _fuck._ ‘Back before nightfall’ was looking less and less likely.

Geralt sank his fingers into the soil as deeply as they would go, burying his arms halfway to the elbows. Work to be done, always work to be done. The pit was only half as big as it needed to be, and nowhere near deep enough. Daylight was dwindling. 

He pushed his arms in deeper, appreciating the coolness as he reached down, as deep as he could manage. 

He felt something. Just with the very tips of his fingernails - it was deep. If not for his enhanced senses he might have missed it altogether. Geralt frowned. He started to dig faster, with urgency, as if possessed by his curiosity. What was down there? It didn’t feel sharp like a rock, or rough like a root. 

The gold and violet twilight seemed to linger as he up scooped armful after armful of damp soil. As he dug deeper, his keen sense of smell started to pick up something new - something floral, herbal, and green. Rose, lavender, the sharp, bitter scent of dandelion milk. 

Geralt almost had it, he was sure. Whatever was down there, he was getting very close. He started to brush the dirt away rather than scooping or digging. Gentle, best to be gentle now. 

It almost made no difference to Geralt that the deeper he dug, the more the silver medallion round his neck seemed to protest. 

At last, whatever was buried began to show itself. It was flesh coloured, soft, and- fuck.

Not _it_ self, _him_ self.

Geralt shot back from the pit in an instant. Had he dug up some poor man’s grave? It was just what he needed. To be branded not only a butcher, but a graverobber. Or worse, some sort of necromancer.

“Fuck.”

He peered back down, and realized with relief, no. This couldn’t be a grave. There was no sign of decay, none at all. No maggots or bone, or rotted, stinking flesh. Just rosy cheeks and that smell. A clean, _living_ smell of herbs and greens.

Geralt reached down into the pit and continued to brush the soil gently from the man’s face. It was sweet, at once boyish and timeless with long eyelashes and slightly lopsided pink lips. Geralt’s thumb brushed over those lips, cleaning them off. His face felt _warm_. He was alive. Somehow, alive. 

So he wasn’t human. What he _was_ exactly, Geralt didn’t know. Undead things weren’t warm and flush. 

It felt like hours that Geralt dug, working to expose as much of the man’s body as he could, that he might free him, resuscitate him. 

Hours, yet the twilight did not wane. 

The man was dressed in finery more decadent and strange than Geralt had ever seen before. Things that had been fashionable, maybe fifty years ago. Now gaudy, bordering on absurd-looking. The clothes - and indeed the man - had an otherworldly look to them. Patterns, designs, and colours that were not possible without magical aid. He was tall, and slim, but sturdy looking. He was beautiful. Maybe the most beautiful creature Geralt had ever laid eyes on. Ethereal, almost _too_ beautiful. 

Geralt plucked one of his hands from the earth, pulling his arm free. 

As if he’d flipped a switch, the man immediately sat upright, taking a series of shuddering, urgent breaths and coughing violently. Clods of earth fell from his lips as he clutched at his throat and pounded his own chest. When he’d calmed down and regained his breath, he rubbed the dirt from his eyes, opened them, and looked around for a moment before landing on Geralt. 

“You’ve freed me,” he pulled himself up from the would-be grave and kissed Geralt square on the mouth. 

More surprising still, Geralt kissed him back. 

“Why were you digging?” The man asked, suddenly breaking off the kiss. 

“What?”

“What were you burying? Before you pulled me from the earth?” 

“What? I- what are you?” Geralt asked, beginning to come to his senses.

“I’m a bard,” the man said, “Call me Buttercup, Dandelion, Jaskier, whatever you like.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt repeated, “A bard.”

Jaskier hummed. 

“And how is it, bard, that you’re alive?” Geralt asked, “No human could have survived being buried so long.”

“Well that’s easy,” Jaskier said, a mischievous smile playing at his lips, “I’m not human.”

“What the hell are you then?” Geralt demanded, scowling. 

“I told you, not human. And I’ll forgive that rudeness since you’ve so graciously freed me from my prison, but do watch your tongue,” Jaskier wagged a finger as though Geralt was a child in need of scolding. Geralt’s scowl deepened.

“I think a much more interesting question is what are you?” Jaskier continued, “You’re not human either, are you?”

“No,” he said. 

Jaskier stared at him expectantly. 

“Well?” Jaskier said, after it became clear that Geralt would not volunteer any further information.

“‘ _Well’_ what.”

“What are you?” 

“I’ll be specific when you are.”

Jaskier swore. 

“I need details, handsome stranger! How the fuck else am I meant to write a song about my kind saviour?” Jaskier threw his hands up in frustration, “Though I admit, ‘kind’ is turning out to be something of a stretch.”

“A song?” Geralt raised an eyebrow. 

“Yes, a song! I’m a bard, we’ve already been over this,” Jaskier shook his head, “Please do try to keep up. Now, answer me: Why were you digging? What are you? Were you going to bury something? Where do you come from?”

“I should have left you in that fucking hole,” Geralt grumbled, overwhelmed by the onslaught. 

Jaskier gaped at him, blue eyes wide, “That- You- You grumpy old fucker!”

Geralt sighed, “What happened to ‘kind saviour?”

“Well, you decided to be mean!” 

“Look, I don’t need - or want - a song. Really, you needn’t repay me,” Geralt said. He started to get up, making for the pile of Archespore corpses that still needed burying. 

Jaskier followed.

“But you rescued me. You’ve done me a massive favour,” he said.

“It wasn’t on purpose.”

“You don’t understand,” he said, “My people take favours _very…_ seriously, shall we say? And as lovely as it would be to take off and forget about this whole ordeal, I just can’t.”

“Sure you can,” Geralt said. He slung an armful of the remains over his shoulder, careful to avoid the poison spikes. 

“No- You’re still not getting it,” Jaskier pinched the bridge of his nose, “You rescued me from an eternal prison. Doesn’t that mean anything to you? Don’t you get it? That’s practically a life debt!”

“You’re welcome,” Geralt dropped the Archespores into the pit, and started kicking the soil over them.

“It’s not that simple!” Jaskier looked like he might explode, “I am in your debt in a big, big, _huge_ way, and if there’s nothing you _want_ , I’ll just have to follow you around until an opportunity presents itself.”

That gave Geralt pause. 

“What?” his head snapped towards the bard. He didn’t look much happier about it than Geralt felt.

“You seem the adventurous sort, a bard could come in handy.”

“No,” Geralt said, gruff and final. 

“I wasn’t asking,” Jaskier said, somehow _more_ final. 

“You’ll get in the way, or get yourself killed, or, I don’t know. Just, no!”

“Get myself- Are you joking? If a great nap in the fucking bog didn’t do it, why is it you think one of your sad little beasts will?” Jaskier almost laughed.

“You’ll still be in the way!” Geralt growled, “You haven’t seen the things I kill. I work alone. I travel alone. I’ll escort you into town but that is where we part for good. Understand, bard?”

Jaskier put his hands on his hips, was quiet for a moment, and then swore, “Fuck, I know exactly what you are.”

“Hmm.”

“White hair, yellow eyes, silly necklace,” he pointed to the silver wolf medallion, “You live a life of danger and think it’s your gods-given right to be the biggest, most stubborn grouch you can manage. You’re a fucking Witcher,” Jaskier looked smug, “Am I right?” Got it in one, the clever bastard. That put Geralt at a sharp disadvantage, not a position he was comfortable in. Jaskier knew exactly what he was dealing with now, Geralt still had no clue.

“Top marks,” he said, “I’m still not going to let you follow me around like some lost pup.”

“Again,” Jaskier said with a world-weary sigh, “You’re not getting it: _I did not ask_.”

As Geralt buried the creatures, his brain moved a mile a minute trying to work out what the hell he’d gotten himself into. Jaskier wasn’t the first weirdo to try and attach himself to him, but was perhaps the weirdest. 

The bog was quiet for a minute as Geralt worked, save for the buzzing flies.

“Witcher?” Jaskier said eventually.

“Hmm.”

“Tell me your name,” it wasn’t a question. 

Geralt’s eyes narrowed. He cast a look back at Jaskier, who was standing contrapposto with his arms crossed a few paces away, a certain slyness that Geralt disliked in his eyes.

“No, I don’t think I will,” Geralt said. Something about it felt wrong, some instinct deep inside him said no, don’t trust this thing. Names were powerful, depending on who you gave them to. Jaskier had given him three, he’d begun to doubt that any of them could be taken as true.

A slow smile spread over Jaskier’s face, “Very good, Witcher. Someone’s starting to put the pieces together.”

Geralt scowled, and wracked his brain. What sort of beast would demand his name? 

Demanded his name, liked to be difficult and feel clever, scolded his rudeness, took a personal debt deathly serious, immortal - or about as close as one could get. 

Geralt looked around - _really_ looked, and then groaned. How had he not noticed before? It seemed so obvious now. Where he stood on top of the buried Archespores - where Jaskier had been buried, he was in the exact centre of a perfect circle of dandelion flowers.

“Fuck.”

Jaskier laughed, practically a howl.

Only then did Geralt notice that night had finally fallen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The villagers take great offence to Geralt. Jaskier takes great offence to the villagers.

The path they took out of bog was well-traveled, a gravel road wide enough for Roach to walk comfortably, Jaskier keeping pace alongside her. It was bordered by tall grass, swaying gently in the breeze, fireflies flickering sporadically amongst the blades. Low hanging tree branches reached down to brush gently against the top of Geralt’s head every few feet, teasing tangles into the pale strands. Darkness had settled easily, brightly shining stars, and the nearly full moon ornamenting the night sky. 

Lovely as the night was, the short ride back into town was not a pleasant one for Geralt. Only the familiar, steady rhythm of Roach’s clopping hooves against the gravel path grounded him in his sanity. 

He’d spent years with only that sound to keep him company. It was comforting, the near silence was centering and relaxing, and he liked it. It let him decompress, come down after a hunt.

Silence, blessed silence, had abandoned him. It left him to his fate and the slow breaking of his mind.

Jaskier was a talker. Gods above and below did he know how to talk. 

“-And if the date you’ve told me is correct, that means I’ve been asleep in that dreadful bog for fifty years - _fifty years_! Can you believe he would do that to me? It’s absolutely inhumane, _disgusting_ , even for one of us. I struggle to think of anyone who’s suffered more than I, I truly do. It’s a _crime_. As if any sleight by me could warrant such barbaric behaviour. I swear, when I get home, there will be _words_! As if that wasn’t bad enough - I’m stuck here until I repay you, the most difficult man in the world. And of course my clothes are all wrong now. I must look like someone’s frumpy, elderly father. I’ll need a whole new wardrobe. And my lute! Last thing I remember before I went to sleep was that absolute pig-faced, bug-eating, foot-licking _bastard_ smashing it to pieces. I’ll never find another to equal it. It was irreplaceable, one of a kind, and it’s gone forever now. I used to command entire courts with only my voice and that lute. Whole spring court, gone completely quiet to listen to me, realize that doesn’t mean much to you, but there you have it. And what am I now? Traveling companion to a Witcher. Dirt matted into my hair. The shame of it all,” he groused, walking alongside Geralt and Roach. 

“Hmm.”

“And you’re not even _listening_!” he said, throwing his hands in the air. 

“We’re almost there,” Geralt said, “You can have a hot bath, a meal, perhaps stop fucking complaining for five minutes.”

Jaskier balked, “You’re horrible! As if any of this is my fault. I am a hapless victim, thank you very much. I’ve every right to complain,” he said.

Geralt snorted, “And I’m sure you did nothing to deserve it. Right.” He was starting to understand what about the bard would drive a person to such an act.

“I could make the land barren wherever you step. Put a rock in your boot that you’ll never be rid of. Tangle your hair so badly that you have to shear every bit of it from your head,” - Geralt lifted a hand to his silver locks - “You know what I am, what we do,” Jaskier said, “And yet!” his voice grew loud, “You insist on mocking! I thought Witchers were supposed to be clever!”

Geralt sighed.

“Don’t make empty threats, bard,” Geralt said, “You can’t do any of that without my name.”

He could practically feel the frustration coming off Jaskier. Though, he seemed more petulant than murderous. For the time being.

“Don’t think I won’t trick it out of you, Witcher. You’ll be sorry then.”

“Hmm.” 

Within minutes, the village came into view. It was the sort of small, rustic affair that Geralt had become used to. The town had come together to scrape up enough coin to pay a Witcher to rid them of the creatures that had felled one too many of their children. The little ones would run off to catch frogs in the pond, or pick flowers for their mothers, and come home with poison in their veins - and if they were lucky, a week left to live. 

Geralt already knew how it would play out. He’d present evidence of the completed task to the Alderman, who would try to lowball him out of half of his payment. Geralt would insist, intimidate the man, and he’d get paid. 

He’d look like a coin-hungry monster, demanding and animalistic. He’d play into every rumor, confirm everything they believed about Witchers. The villagers might later cast him grudging thanks, but at the end of the day the innkeeper would give him her most threadbare blankets, her oldest leftovers, her weakest ale. Nobody would look at or speak to him, nobody would offer him a friendly game of cards, and he would go to bed early. He’d go to bed feeling cold.

Then he would move on in the morning, and do it all again. 

Only now, with a bard in tow. 

It was wonderful. Just what he’d always wanted.

Said bard had stopped talking so much, but was humming now, which was almost worse. As they entered the town, he quipped the odd question about the fashions, or the shops, or the looks people gave to Geralt as they rode in.

Things went about the way Geralt had expected, the way they always did. 

He found the Alderman in the very tavern he was staying in. He tossed the bit of Archespore down onto the table in front of him, and the squat, balding man flinched as though Geralt had taken a swing at him. The lively atmosphere of the place had come to a grinding halt as soon as Geralt and Jaskier entered. Music and conversation fell silent. Everyone stared, expecting. 

Waiting for the legendary monster to come out.

“My coin,” he said.

“Here,” the Alderman tossed a small pouch up at him. He caught it easily, it was far smaller and lighter than it should have been.

Geralt peered inside. 

“This is not what we agreed on.”

“It’s all we have,” the Alderman insisted, “We are poor farmers and miners, surely you would not bankrupt us, all we wanted was to keep our children safe!”

A few hums and grunts of agreement came from the surrounding patrons as more and more of them turned their attention to Geralt’s imposing form towering over their Alderman. 

He knew how it looked, what he looked like. He’d stopped caring long ago. 

“A deal is a deal. You shouldn’t have agreed to so much if your people could not afford it,” Geralt said. His patience was wearing thin. Between the cowering Alderman and the bard fliting around him, asking anyone who would listen if they could tell him Geralt’s name, he was itching to drive his sword through something.

“I- We-”

Geralt’s fist came down hard on the table. He heard the sound of daggers being drawn, smelled the sharp metal cutting through the air. He leaned in close, the scent mingling with the ale on the Alderman’s breath. 

“My coin,” he said again, low and dangerous. 

The stink of fear radiated from the man in waves as he slowly pulled another pouch from his waistcoat pocket. Geralt snatched it, nodded, and backed away. The surrounding villagers muttered their angry disapproval, the occasional insult finding Geralt’s ears through the din. Butcher, monster, greedy, heartless. Nothing he hadn’t heard a hundred times before. 

Jaskier cut in, and Geralt practically growled, the sound tearing from somewhere low in his throat. 

“So sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but I wondered if you, good sir,” he smiled at the Alderman, “Could you tell me this gent’s name?”

The Alderman looked over the filthy bard, and then quizzically up at Geralt. Geralt shrugged.

“Don’t know,” he replied, “Didn’t ask, don’t care. He’s a Witcher, that’s all we needed to know”

“Hmm,” Jaskier frowned, but was blessedly silent. 

Geralt sighed, and made for the rickety wooden stairs that lead to the sleeping quarters. He paused at the bar, and asked for hot water to be sent up for a bath. The woman working there spat at his feet. 

He turned to Jaskier, “Sorry.”

Jaskier said nothing, but followed him upstairs to the small room that he’d now have to share. 

It was cramped, and drafty, with a scratchy straw mattress that might’ve been older than he was. The window pane was cracked, and the thin blanket provided little respite from the evening chill. 

All in all, not the worst place he’d stayed. 

Jaskier looked around the little room with horror and disgust plain on his face, his nose scrunched up at the musty smell.

“You live like this?” he asked, incredulous. 

Geralt shrugged. 

“They were awful,” Jaskier went on, “Those people? You did them a service, and they did nothing but disrespect you. They were ready to chase you out of town! And for what? Asking to be treated fairly? Not even bothering to learn your name, _really._ And that woman! She spat at you! A paying customer!”

“I’m a Witcher,” was all Geralt said. It was explanation enough. 

Jaskier shook his head. 

“I’m going to fix it,” he said. 

“What?”

“I’ll need a new lute, a notebook and ink, new clothes,” Jaskier was talking more to himself now.

Geralt deposited his swords at the foot of the bed and stood in front of Jaskier, “Stop. What do you mean you’ll ‘fix it’?” 

“I can make them love you,” Jaskier said fervently, looking fiercely into Geralt’s eyes. 

Geralt scowled. 

“Look,” Jaskier said, “I refuse to live like this. And we’re stuck together until I can repay my life debt, so, obviously I have to do something about,” he gestured to the room, “This.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, “You think you can sing _me_ into some beloved hero?”

“Obviously,” Jaskier said. 

“Good luck,” Geralt said. 

“Don’t insult me,”

“You’re up against decades of pure shit, you’ll need it.”

“I don’t know what part of ‘magical fae bard’ you didn’t get, Witcher. It’ll be done.”

It sounded almost like a promise. Not something one of his kind readily offered up. He must’ve been confident. 

Geralt took a seat on the bed and set to removing his armour and taking stock of his herbs and potions. It would be best to restock before they left town - if anyone would serve him. 

Jaskier, meanwhile, had pried the window open and was leaning out of it, trying to excavate what dirt he could from his hair. Geralt watched him. Every one of his movements was a performance, big, and graceful, and deliberate, and demanding attention. Even as he shook dirt out of his hair, he was unbearably beautiful. Watching him was like taking in theatre.

Geralt’s thoughts drifted from the room, the tavern, the shithole of a town, and back to the quiet bog. He thought of the earth in his hands, pulling Jaskier from his prison, and, almost unwittingly, he thought about how Jaskier had kissed him. The abruptness of it, the joy of it, and how he had, almost instinctively, kissed him back. He’d tasted of dirt, but his lips were soft, exhaling fire deep into the pit of Geralt’s belly. 

Fae were dangerous things, graceful and pretty and charming and deadly.

“What shall I call you?” Jaskier asked, shaking Geralt from his thoughts. He ducked back inside the window, apparently satisfied that he’d removed all the dirt he could from his hair. It was tousled and windswept-looking now, falling in front of his blue eyes before he shoved it back and out of the way.

Geralt blinked. He’d thought “Witcher” was working alright. 

“You’re a bard,” he said, “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Jaskier sighed, “You’re determined to make my life as difficult as possible.”

“Funny,” Geralt replied, “I was going to say the same to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow Jaskier really said "Damn bitch you live like this?????"
> 
> Thank you so much for the lovely comments and kudos on chapter one! You guys make my day :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A shopping trip and a bath.

Geralt rose the next morning with the sun, as he always did. The ragged, thin mattress had provided little comfort. He’d spent the night with bits of straw jutting out and poking him, and there was a nasty ache in his lower back that he knew he’d spend the entire day trying to work out. 

He’d have been better off on the floor, he was sure. But Jaskier had insisted Geralt take the bed. He had no wish for sleep. After fifty years, Geralt wasn’t sure if he couldn’t rest or simply refused to _._ Mercifully, whatever way he’d found to pass the night had been quiet. 

Geralt’d found it difficult to sleep with Jaskier in the room, just sitting there awake. Not only because he was a wildcard - an unknown element left unsupervised while Geralt lay prone and vulnerable. It was also strange trying to sleep while he knew someone was watching him. He felt oddly self-conscious. 

What little sleep he did get was uneasy and disturbed, though the dagger beneath his pillow brought him some comfort. 

Geralt rolled over to see Jaskier sitting with his back against the wall underneath the window. For all of his complaining the night before, he really did look upset. A bit pathetic, in a way that made Geralt sad. Dirt on his face, ridiculous, ruined clothes, that sad dog look in his jewel eyes. He was pouting. Of course he was pouting. 

“Ah!” Jaskier flickered back to life as he noticed Geralt had woken. He sprang from the floor, lithe and graceful as always. 

“You’re awake! When are we leaving? I think I’d like to shop a bit first. Do you think they’ll serve us breakfast downstairs? I think we passed a bakery last night, Witcher, can we go?” 

Any pity Geralt held in his heart for Jaskier dissolved quickly. 

“Hmm.”

“Not a morning person, got it,” Jaskier said, “Think it over, get back to me when you’re ready.”

Geralt went about his morning as normal, trying to ignore the eyes of the bard following him as he moved around the room. Jaskier started to hum again. It wasn’t a tune that he recognized, but it was unbearably catchy. 

When he was ready, bags packed and armour on, they made their way down the creaking stairs and out the tavern door. Geralt ignored the dirty look from the owner as Jaskier started chattering again.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “All night I was thinking about how to relieve you of the unfortunate image problem you seem to find yourself burdened with, and I really think one good song will do it. If I can write it catchy enough, weave just the right magic into it, bam! You’ll be beloved across the Continent. I just need to see you vanquish some horrible beast for inspiration, figure out something to call you if you’re going to be stubborn on the name issue - which for the record, I think is a bit racist of you. We’re not _all_ with the stealing away and cursing to madness and maiming people, you know. Some of us are quite nice.”

“You threatened me last night, Jaskier,” Geralt pointed out blandly.

“I - ok, yes, that is a fair point,” Jaskier said, maybe looking a little sheepish, “Still, a little trust is not too much to ask, I think.”

“Hmm.”

“Listen, I - Oh! Are we shopping, then?” Jaskier had finally noticed that Geralt was leading them into the village’s small market district. Badly as he wanted to get on the road, there was no denying he needed to restock his supplies. He made for the apothecary shop, and with a gesture dismissed Jaskier to his own business. 

He quickly got lost in the throng. Geralt watched him go, puzzling over the situation in his head. The most ridiculous things really did happen to him. He had to admit though, the bard’s dedication to changing his reputation had begun to endear him. He seemed stubborn, determined. Geralt figured the path of least resistance would be to let Jaskier do whatever it was he felt he needed to - do him a favour, catch a blade for him, write him a song, _whatever_. They’d part, and that’d be it. If nothing else, it’d make a good story when he went to winter at Kaer Morhen. 

The market was already alive with activity, despite the sun having only just begun to creep over the horizon. The main square was cobblestone, bits of weeds and grass coming up between the loosening stones. Children ran around in the middle, playing some sort of dancing game around the wishing fountain in the middle. Dust and laughter hung in the air around them.

One of the children, a little boy, pulled a ribbon from one of the girls’ hair, her blonde locks bouncing down in front of her face. She shrieked, turned, and pushed him into the fountain - to much applause and laughter from the other girls. 

Geralt couldn’t help smiling. They were just kids, fucking around, having fun. The weight of the world hadn’t yet beaten them down. Kids who would be safer now, because of what he’d spent yesterday doing. It made the shit and abuse feel a little more worth it. 

A man saw him staring, and with a scowl collected two of the children - presumably his - from the group. He ushered the two little girls away, casting a distrustful look back at Geralt. The bitter sting of hatred flared in his eyes. 

The world wasted no time in reminding Geralt exactly who he was, what he was. 

Geralt pushed into the apothecary. It was a small, run-down looking shack at the edge of the market square. The shop owner was a gnarled old woman, the sort of human Geralt most trusted. She looked world-weary and tired, her body hunched and burdened by loose, wrinkled skin and aching joints. She didn’t smile, didn’t offer help or try to sell him anything, but there was no fear or anger in her eyes as she looked upon him, and she didn’t give him any hassle at all. He hadn’t really been expecting that. 

Once his stores had been fully stocked, Geralt stopped around a few other stalls, finding himself a decent little shovel and replenishing his rations of dried fruit and meat. The variety and quality were both lacking, and he was quite sure he’d paid entirely too much for what little he did find, but nobody refused him, and so all things considered it was a successful shopping trip.

Geralt found Jaskier in the bakery, trying to charm his way into a free breakfast. 

“And so you see, I’m a bard, and quite a skilled one at that. Were you to graciously allow me a sample, I’d have customers flocking to your shop!” he was saying, one hand inching ever closer to a display of sweet rolls. 

“You don’t look like a bard” the baker cocked her head. She looked him and his filthy clothes up and down with a quizzical brow.

“I-” a frown slipped through, “Seem to have found myself in unfortunate circumstances as of late. But I assure you, you won’t find my equal for talent anywhere on the Continent.”

“And you’d sing about my shop?” she didn’t look entirely convinced.

“Happily, dear,” Jaskier grinned. 

“Alright,” Geralt interrupted. He tossed a few coins onto the wood countertop Jaskier was leaning on, “That’s enough, let’s go.”

He was halfway out the door before Jaskier could protest. 

He looked at the coins on the counter, at Geralt standing in the doorway, at the sweet rolls, and finally at the baker, her eyebrow raised at him.

“Been a pleasure,” Jaskier finally said. He slid the coins into the baker’s hand, grabbed a few of the rolls, and followed Geralt out.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jaskier said, “I almost had her.”

“Hmm.”

“I’m serious, just a few more minutes and she would’ve given me anything I asked. We could’ve eaten like _kings_ ,” Jaskier offered him a roll. Geralt took it. It was sweet and rich on his tongue, and would feel heavy in his stomach later, but he savoured it. 

“Coin is much quicker, though, you’ll notice,” he said.

“Rather less fun, I think,” Jaskier replied.

“I suppose that's a matter of perspective,” Geralt said, “Fun for you, not so for the baker who’d have gone unpaid.”

Jaskier looked like he hadn’t considered that. He had no answer for Geralt, and so instead elected to change the subject.

“So where are we headed off to then, Witcher?” 

Geralt had spent much of the previous night contemplating that as he’d tossed and turned in his bed. He _had_ been on his way to a larger city, but Jaskier sort of threw a wrench into that plan. More people meant he was more likely to run into someone he knew, someone who would recognize him and blurt out his name. He didn’t feel good about the kind of power that knowledge would give the bard. Geralt didn’t trust him. Jaskier could profess to be different - one of the ‘nice ones’ - all he wanted. Fae were temperamental at the best of times.

“Don’t know,” Geralt said, “I think I’ve had my fill of people for a while.”

“So what, we’ll just wander around the woods until you find something to kill?” 

Geralt nodded, “Suppose so.”

They stopped back at the tavern to collect Roach, and then they were off.

The day, nearly as lovely as the one before, was spent on the road out of town, to nowhere in particular. Just as the night before, Jaskier kept up pace and constant chatter beside Geralt and Roach. 

Geralt did his best to tune Jaskier out, to let him fade to background noise that could be easily ignored. It was difficult though. The bard demanded his attention, and Geralt found himself grudgingly at first, but then freely giving it. He smiled at the jokes, answered questions when he could, _listened_. The company was amiable. It was almost nice to have someone to talk to besides his horse. 

It felt a little disconcerting, too. Geralt was sure it would wear off soon. It was the novelty, he supposed, of being spoken to and treated like an equal. Like a person. To have someone speak casually and freely, be _cheerful_ with him, it had been a while.

When the sun hit its peak in the sky, bearing down harshly on Geralt’s all-black ensemble, he suggested they stop for a moment. There was a river up ahead, a break and a drink of cool water would not go amiss. 

Jaskier made for the water as soon as Geralt suggested it. Geralt followed, until Jaskier started removing his clothes. 

“What are you doing?” he scowled, turning away. 

“Taking a bath,” Jaskier called. Geralt could hear him splashing into the river, “Wouldn’t hurt you one bit to join me.”

“I’m fine.”

“You stink of death and rot.”

“Like I said, fine.”

He heard Jaskier sigh, “Suit yourself, then.” He hummed to himself, the same tune from the morning.

Geralt settled against a wide oak tree facing away from the river, sitting with his back pressed into the rough bark. He could smell sap, plants returning to life, the clean, cold water. The air was warm, the sun hot, and the wind cool. He closed his eyes, allowing himself the infectious peace of a fresh spring day. 

It had gone quiet. Blissfully silent, and Geralt realized how much he missed it. Jaskier’s chattering and humming was nice for the moment, but to be alone with only chirping birds and the bubbling river felt like home. 

Yes, it was a lovely day, and it was quiet. And Geralt scowled. It had become too quiet. The splashing and humming from the river had stopped. 

“Jaskier?” he called. 

There was no reply. 

“Jaskier?” he called again, louder. 

There was a splash, loud and thrashing and urgent, and the bard’s voice rang out, “Witcher!” 

Geralt was on his feet in an instant, turning just in time to see a pack of five Drowners dragging Jaskier into the deep part of the river. Jaskier clung and clawed at the river bed, more and more panicked as the soft silt refused to give purchase, falling away under his fingers. 

Silver sword clutched in his hand, Geralt ran into the river. He reached down and grabbed Jaskier round the waist with one arm, all but hurling him onto the shore. The bard landed hard on his back, coughing and scrambling away from the water’s edge. His eyes though, remained rapt on the action before him. 

“Well done, bard. You found something for me to kill,” Geralt whirled before Jaskier could speak, bringing his sword down hard into the skull of one of the beasts. With a quick, practiced _Igni_ , another went up in flames. 

The creatures shrieked as Geralt hacked at them, the stink of rot and mildew growing more potent with every slash. They clawed at him, biting and hissing and dragging him further into the water. His sword pierced a chest, and then there were only two. Geralt slashed out again, his blade found a throat, but not before the other Drowner’s teeth found their home in his arm. The sword found its last mark quickly, and the water finally stilled.

Geralt trudged out of the river, bloody and soaked, and sat beside Jaskier. 

“Are they still - how did you put it? Sad little beasts?” Geralt asked, a hint of humour in his voice. 

“Perhaps I underestimated,” Jaskier said faintly. He’d pulled his discarded doublet over himself. 

“That’s two I owe you now,” he said after a moment. 

“I’m winning,” Geralt said.

“Indeed,” Jaskier said, and the word was almost a laugh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to get this out days ago, but it turns out that it's actually quite difficult to find time to write when all of your final assignments come due within like a week and a half of each other. I hope it was worth the wait in any case, writing it felt more like fighting with it, but I think it's finally in a decent place. Action scenes are difficult, I hope you'll forgive me.
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely comments and kudos, I treasure every single one of you with my whole heart. Come and chat with me on tumblr if you like, @tristranthorne :)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fight of a different sort.

Geralt allowed Jaskier a moment to collect himself after the Drowners. He watched him closely, waiting for the bard’s breathing and heartbeat to find a more normal rhythm. His concern grew the longer Jaskier sat quiet, still, watching with a fixed glare the river that had only moments ago seemed peaceful. A welcome respite from the heat of the sun, gone deadly in an instant. He was sure, to Jaskier, it must seem so sinister now. 

He wondered whether Jaskier would get it, what he hadn’t seemed to understand before. The Path was dangerous, even to a creature like him. It wasn’t a place for pretty songs, or playing in rivers, or people who couldn’t defend themselves. A person had to be hard to survive, ready for anything. The bard had bitten off far more than he could chew. Perhaps he’d see that now. 

Geralt sat with him, quiet. He didn’t know if it was helping or not, but it felt right. If Jaskier was worried about more of the creatures coming for him, surely a Witcher with a large silver sword close on hand would make him feel at least a bit better. As he waited, he did his best to wrap his wounded arm with a bit of bandage.

When the colour returned to his face, and the calm of the water was deemed to be trustworthy, Jaskier stood and turned away, dressing himself with slow, steady hands. There were a few scrapes and scratches from the attack, it seemed his legs had gotten the worst of it. The blood ran red, and Geralt didn’t know why that surprised him. It was silly, he knew that, but he half expected some shade of blue or black. 

Jaskier pulled his trousers up, tucking his undershirt in, but elected to go without the extravagant doublet. He threw the bulky, ornamented fabric over his shoulder. His undershirt was crafted from finely embroidered cream silk. It was decidedly less gaudy - and far cleaner - than the rest of his clothes, a piece of real taste hidden beneath the once-trendy, indulgent outer clothes. It was fitted at the shoulders, with wide sleeves and a low, decorated collar that hung loose over Jaskier’s bare chest. For a reason Geralt could not place, though he’d watched the bard dress from the corner of his eye - he couldn’t bring himself to look at the exposed bit of skin. 

“Well, no time to waste, I suppose,” Jaskier said when he was ready, and gestured for Geralt to lead the way. 

Geralt stood and took Roach’s lead, walking with her along the river rather than riding her. He put himself between Jaskier and the water’s edge. 

Jaskier was uncharacteristically quiet, saying nothing, but worrying his lip and staring straight ahead. He offered no commentary, he didn’t even hum. It was, somehow, more off-putting than the noise. 

Geralt didn’t know what to do with that. There was a nagging feeling in the pit of his gut that said,  _ talk to him, comfort him _ . That sad-dog melancholy was back in his eyes. Geralt felt intensely uncomfortable. He wondered what the bard was thinking, why he wouldn’t just say what they both knew was the right thing to do. 

“What?” Jaskier said, and Geralt realized he’d been staring. He quickly averted his gaze, fixing his eyes on the path ahead of him.

“You’ve gone quiet,” he said.

“I have,” Jaskier agreed, “I’m sorry. I could tell a story if you like, or sing something?”

“No,” Geralt shook his head, “That’s not what I meant.”

“What then?” Jaskier looked at him, brow furrowed.

What did he mean? He meant to see that Jaskier was ok, to make him better. Meant to apologize for having dug him up, for having bound the two of them together in a way that put him in danger. Meant to tell him he should go. He meant to fix it. 

Geralt shrugged, and with a sigh that Jaskier shortly matched, they continued their trek in silence. 

Before long, the river led them into a more heavily forested area, the water calming from a steady stream to a trickle. It tumbled gently over jagged, moss covered rocks, and was shallow all the way across. Sunlight dappled in through the trees, dancing and playing on the underbrush as the leaves swayed in a sweet-smelling breeze. They brushed against each other in a shuddering symphony.

Jaskier settled visibly. His posture relaxed, his eyes lifting, and a melodic humming picked up. It was the same tune as before, the one that was so good at worming its way into Geralt’s head. His mood seemed to improve as they moved deeper into the forest. Had he decided then? To part ways and be done with it? It would be the best decision, for both of them really. Jaskier would be safer, and Geralt had no desire to babysit a defenseless bard. 

Geralt was staring again, but he didn’t look away. Something unsaid hung in the air between them, a tension, a question unasked.

“I couldn’t breathe,” Jaskier said eventually, “When they pulled me under. It was like suffocating again. I don’t think there’s any worse feeling in the world.”

Geralt nodded. 

“You said this would be dangerous, and I didn’t believe you before,” Jaskier’s voice was soft, lacking the practiced, grandiose quality his words usually took on. There were no theatrics now, he was just a man. A man who, like many before him, was coming to realize that tying himself to a Witcher was not the fun bit of adventure he’d wanted it to be. How much was it worth to him, to repay a life debt, Geralt wondered? Jaskier would be smart to leave, if his pride, or whatever rules bound him could abide it. 

The day was still young. If they turned around soon and rode back, Geralt could probably get him to the village they’d come from before night fell in earnest. It was for the best.

“But,” Jaskier continued after a beat, “Danger, I think, makes for far more interesting stories.”

Geralt turned to look at him, eyebrows raised. 

He didn’t want to leave. That wasn’t right. 

“Really,” Geralt said with a scowl. 

“Yes,” he replied, “If there was any doubt before, it’s long gone. By your side, I’ll write a ballad so epic - so grand that it’ll put every other bard and Witcher on the Continent to shame. Hell, I’ll have enough inspiration to last my entire career, which is really saying something given my frankly ridiculous life expectancy.”

“You’d risk your life in the company of a Witcher,  _ for a song? _ ”

“Obviously.”

“Oh, fuck off,” Geralt shook his head. 

The two stopped walking, and Jaskier stared at him.

“Excuse me?” 

“You’re an idiot,” Geralt said, “You could’ve died today, and yet still you insist on following me around like a sad, injured pup,” he could see reflected in Jaskier’s eyes the harshness of his words, yet he could not stop. His voice grew louder.

“All because your foolish sense of fae pride can’t handle the two simple words it would take to break this bond, be free of each other. That and- and some hope of what? Adventure? Fame?”

“Do you want me to apologize? For- for what? For being attacked?” Jaskier leveled Geralt with a scowl to rival his own.

“I want you to wake up,” Geralt snapped, “Admit to yourself that this is not a life you want, and certainly not one that you can handle.”

“Oh I’m so sorry,” Jaskier said. His voice grew dangerous and angry, with almost a quiver to it, and his eyes grew stormy - slightly manic, “I am so very, very full of regret Witcher, that I was taken unawares without a blade to defend myself. Had I been armed - or even had time to sing my magic - let me assure you in no uncertain terms that I would have fought readily at your side. In any case, it seems that what I ought to be most regretful of is not reacting in the way that you expected of me.”

“What?”

“Please,” Jaskier scoffed, “You spend the whole afternoon brooding, scowling, grunting like an animal, and lose your head when I tell you I’m sticking around. You’re ridiculous, and if you plan to wait for me to run screaming from danger like a child, you’re going to have to wait a very fucking long time. I’ve got a masterpiece of a song to write and a debt to repay you, two now, in fact, and I intend to do so."

“You owe me nothing, I’ve told you,” Geralt said.

“I do though! I do, and what’s more I want to be here. What obligation I have comes second to the fact that I want to be here. I can handle myself perfectly well, and both our lives can change for the better if you’ll pull your head out of that lovely arse of yours long enough to see it. Do you understand? I may have had my doubts, but this is no hardship to me. It’s exciting, it’s inspiring. I’m in command of my own fate.”

“Hmm.”

“Bloody hell, Witcher. Would a full sentence actually kill you?”

“You were quiet,” Geralt said, still scowling.

“And you think just because I’m not talking a mile a minute, I must be all depressed,” Jaskier laughed, the sound sharp. 

“I- you-” Geralt didn’t know what to say. He  _ had _ thought that. Falsely, apparently. 

“You’ve got all the social graces of a  _ horse _ , Witcher,” he snorted, “Though I shouldn’t be surprised, given your best friend there.”

Jaskier gestured to Roach, who snorted unhelpfully.

“Right. So you’re fine, just like that.”

“Yes,” Jaskier nodded, “Truly. And next time you’re concerned for my well being, you can ask. Use your words like a big boy instead of assuming you know what’s going on inside my head.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said. 

“If you thought that was all it would take to get rid of me, Witcher, you are sorely mistaken,” Jaskier laughed. He started to walk again, more quickly now with a renewed spring to his step, and Geralt stared after him. Bizzare fucking bard. He shook his head, and followed.

“My life indebted twice to the same man,” he mused. The fight, the anger had gone out of him. 

“Let’s not make it three,” Geralt suggested.

“Agreed,” Jaskier said, “But on the other hand, doesn’t that sound like the makings of a truly great song?”

His voice had taken on a slightly dreamy quality, and Geralt couldn’t help a quirk of his lip. The bard stayed a few paces ahead, composing with his mind’s ear. His hands danced through the air, picking out a one-two-three-four pattern.

So Jaskier would stay. Geralt had, perhaps, underestimated him. By his fine clothes and foppish manner he’d assumed the bard was ill-suited for a life of hardship and beasts. Though it was true one did not survive a fae court without finding some skill in the deadly arts, he’d felt sure Jaskier’s talents lay exclusively in wordsmithing. But what he’d said about the blade…

Underestimated indeed. Geralt had far less trouble imagining the bard gutting a foe - blood-spattered and grinning - after seeing the wild look in his eyes as they’d argued.

He was serious. He wasn’t going anywhere, obligation and stubbornness in equal measure ensured it, and Geralt was going to have to get used to that. 

Jaskier began to sing, little shreds and shards of nonsense songs that meant nothing, but were pretty and simple to hum along to. And Geralt did, despite himself, begin to hum along. He somehow managed to miss every note, and he was sure he heard Jaskier laughing at him, but it felt like a peace offering. It felt like I’m sorry, and it felt like it’s ok.

They walked along the river like that, Jaskier leading and singing, Geralt following behind, off-key with Roach until the day began to wane. 

As the hour advanced, a grey-violet dusk settled over the forest. The shadows grew long, chased by a biting evening chill and heavy clouds. Stark contrast to the blue sky and fair temperature they’d enjoyed all day.

Rain was coming, Geralt could see it in the clouds, taste it on the air. It was a fresh, sweet flavour, and it would soon be upon them. 

“Fuck,” he said. 

“What?” Jaskier turned, just as the first raindrops began to fall. 

“Oh,” he looked at the sky, “Well that’s bollocks, isn’t it?”

“Hmm.”

Geralt scanned the landscape for a particularly lush tree, a nook beneath a boulder, anything that might provide some shelter, some opportunity for a fire. There was nothing that he could see, only the flat forest floor and too-sparse foliage. 

“Fuck,” Geralt said again, “I don’t think there’ll be any fire tonight.”

Jaskier shook his head, and started up his singing again. It was a different tune, a farming song about rain and a grumpy horse. 

Geralt sighed, and pressed on. If they could make it a little further before it got too dark, they might still be able to find some shelter. The land had been flat for a long time and he knew chances were slim, but they ought to come to some sort of outcropping soon.

After a few steps though, Geralt stopped, and turned back to face Jaskier. The simple song he sang was changing - it was growing.There was something in his voice that hadn’t been there when he was singing his nonsense songs. A depth, a bigness. His voice was like a lake - like an expanse of clear sky. It felt like a precipice, the moment before falling. His song echoed and bounced around the trees, seeming to double - triple itself, until it sounded like a whole choir of Jaskiers singing in round. The sound reverberated, made harmonies with itself. The wind whipping around him was a flute, the rain percussion. He held his arms wide to the sky, his silk shirt billowing around in cream waves.

All Geralt could do was stare. 

The song closed, the sound dropping off long after Jaskier’s mouth closed. He smiled, enchanting and mischievous, his eyes alight with magic.

Geralt reached his hand out, and though the rain still fell, not a drop touched him. Nor Jaskier or Roach, for that matter. He could almost see the faint outline of a sphere around them, shielding them from the weather. It was warm inside too - protecting them not only from the rain, but the wind. 

Jaskier exaggerated a bow, “You’re very welcome.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier can have a little nature magic, as a treat.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's in a name?

“Jaskier?” 

Geralt and the bard sat around a dying campfire as the hour matured. It was late, the grey dusk having made way for a starless night. He felt oddly content, reclining against his bedroll and fiddling with a dagger that often went disused. It was a pretty thing, a gift from a grateful noble, with a jeweled finial and finely ornamented pommel, silver cast in the shape of a bird’s skull. It was finely made and lovely to look at, but the weight of it had never suited him, the handle just a hair too short to be comfortable in his big hand, and so it toiled away in the bottom of his saddlebag. Geralt had pulled it from its resting place for a reason, one he still hadn’t fully made up his mind on. He turned it over in his hands as he stared into the glowing embers. 

Geralt was growing sleepy. The warmth of the fire comforted, as did the dark sky and the sound of the rain - still gently pattering on the ground outside of Jaskier’s protective barrier. Both their bellies were full of the fowl Geralt had hunted for their dinner, as well as bits of the candy-sweet dried fruit rations. Jaskier had liked them greatly, eating easily twice what the Witcher had.

The bard ceased his easy humming, “Yes, Witcher?”

“I wondered,” Geralt began, considering how best to phrase the question that flitted about his head, “You told me three… aliases, when we met. I wondered if I chose correctly, the one you like best?”

The embers illuminated a smile on Jaskier’s face - not one of sarcasm or mischief, but a genuinely pleased expression that reached all the way to his eyes.

“Yes, actually,” Jaskier said with a nod, “You did. The first, Buttercup, is something of a pet name. People normally call me that when they want something from me, be it company, a favour, a performance. I simply can’t resist the sound of it spilling from a pretty pair of lips,” he grinned, foolishly. 

“The second, Dandelion, was a stage name I used for many years - it made a great deal more sense when I was blond,” with a sigh, he ran a hand through his deeply brown hair. Geralt struggled for a moment to imagine him with flaxen or honey locks. The changing of hair colour was something that even the most basic of glamour charms could manage. Geralt had considered it on occasion - it may have been nice to look a normal man for a while. But he hadn’t the vanity, nor the commitment required for the upkeep. Besides, his white hair and gold eyes, he thought, were akin to the bright colours that adorned poisonous insects and snakes. A warning. He felt masking them would be deceptive.

“Jaskier, though,” he continued, “Has grown to suit me very well. Or the other way round, I’ve never been quite sure. Did I choose a name to embody my true identity? Or did I choose the name and work to earn it? I can’t really know, I don’t think. I’ve had it for such a long time, it’s difficult to remember which came first. But in any case, I far prefer it to the others, even my true name if I’m to be honest, which I always am.”

Geralt cocked his head, “Does it not become your true name at some point?” he mused, “If you’ve grown to suit and embody it more than the name you were given, does it not become more true? Technicality shouldn’t matter, the rule ought to account for change.”

Jaskier gave a short, delighted laugh, “I have no idea! It’s an interesting question, but I didn’t take you for a philosophical sort, Witcher - I’m pleasantly surprised.”

Geralt shrugged, “I’m curious, I suppose.”

“Well now I am too,” Jaskier said, “Try it out, try to send me away. Say, ‘Jaskier, I banish you from my side, back to the realm from whence you came!’”

The Witcher repeated the phrase, and Jaskier only laughed again.

“Technicality reigns, then,” he said. 

Geralt said nothing, and the bard filled the silence, as he prefered to do.

“And you have no aliases at all, nothing I could call you besides ‘Witcher’? You told me to come up with something, is there nothing you prefer?” Jaskier inquired. He lay sprawled over the soft bed that the needles and leaves of the forest floor made for him, propped up on his elbows with one long leg crossed over the other. 

“No,” he said, “Nothing I’d ask a friend to call me,” Geralt looked away with a grimace. Butcher, Mutant, Scourge, Abomination. They weren’t exactly friendly terms of endearment. 

Jaskier considered that for a moment.

“Friend?” 

“Hmm.” 

“Mere hours ago, you were shouting at me to leave, now you call me friend?” Jaskier said, a smaller version of that same pleased smile creeping back over his face. 

“Well, if you’re going to be difficult about it-”

“No, no,” Jaskier interjected, “This is better.”

They were quiet another beat, before Geralt spoke again.

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you,” he said, low. 

“Bloody right,” Jaskier said, satisfaction saturating his voice. 

The dagger glinted in the fire’s low light, the embedded jewels throwing rainbows like an insect’s wing. Geralt fixed his eyes on it, letting the sharp point rest gently on the tip of his middle finger. 

“You said you’d have fought next to me,” he said.

“I would.”

“You have training?”

“A little,” Jaskier said with a nod, “I’m mostly self-taught, by necessity. The fae courts are a deadly place to make merry. But I did keep company for a while with a talented swordswoman,” Geralt swore he saw a flush around the bard’s ears in the dim light, “I learned a few things from her - she liked very much to bring her blades to bed with her, it made her excited beyond measure to-”

“Alright,” Geralt cut him off, the stupid grin on the bard’s face did not falter as he thought of his lover. 

“She had the loveliest-”

“ _ Alright. _ ”

Jaskier sighed, “You’re no fun at all. But to answer your question - I can handle myself, and I’d be glad to do so.” 

The bard stared at Geralt, the look in his eyes not betraying whether he was looking at the Witcher’s hands, or the blade between them. 

“And,” Geralt continued, “Your magic. Is it useful in battle? Or is it just -” he held out a hand, gesturing to the shimmering, barely visible barrier that protected them from the rain.

Jaskier scoffed, “ _ Just _ , please, Witcher, don’t insult me. This is the very least of it. Once I get my hands on a lute, you wait. As for my use in battle, have you ever seen a man keel over and die from nothing more than a particularly cutting insult?”

Geralt shook his head, “Hmm.”

“I’ve done that,” he went on, “It was such an expertly crafted remark, so scathing that his will to live simply shriveled up and died, and shortly after he followed suit. A sight to behold, really.”

He’d underestimated the bard again. How foolish to think his magic was limited to simple nature charms and glamours. Perhaps too, he owed Jaskier just a touch more trust. If the bard was simply going to kill him in order to free himself of the debt, surely he’d have done it already. He would have needed neither a blade nor a name to do so. 

Geralt took the blade of the dagger in his hand, and held it out handle first to Jaskier. 

The bard looked over the gift for a moment, making no movement to accept it.

“Free of obligation,” Geralt said, “On my word as a Witcher.”

Jaskier reached out, moving slowly, and grasped the dagger’s fine handle. 

“Know that I could kill you in a second,” Geralt said, settling back into his place atop his bedroll.

Jaskier wasn’t paying attention to the mildly delivered threat, instead turning the pretty dagger over in his hand, admiring it and feeling the weight of it. He didn’t say thank you, and Geralt didn’t expect him to. 

What he did say was, “It’s lovely,” and his voice was quiet, almost reverent. 

“Hmm.”

Jaskier held it on the tip of his first finger. The knife swayed to one side, and then the other, and then came to balance. He smiled, and then with a deft movement - clearly well rehearsed, a trick meant to impress pretty nobles - he twirled it between his delicate fingers, over his knuckles, and into the palm of his hand. The blade flashed in the firelight, almost as bright as his cornflower eyes.

Cornflower eyes that were, once again, fixed on Geralt. This time staring baldly at the silver medallion, the wolf insignia that marked him Witcher and rested easily against his chest. The humming, constant when Jaskier was near, was something Geralt was having trouble adjusting to. He found that if he focused on it for even a second, it would overwhelm his senses and set his teeth on edge. If he could find other things to occupy his thoughts though, it faded to background noise as easily as the bard’s soft humming. 

Jaskier’s gaze flickered to his hair, then his eyes, then his hands again - though they were empty now. 

“Like a great white wolf,” he murmured, softly enough that Geralt was not sure whether he was supposed to hear or not. Of course he did, his perfect Witcher’s hearing betraying even the quietest of utterances. But he’d found it to be both courteous and advantageous to be slightly more selective in what he reacted to. This statement, he chose to let hang in the air unacknowledged. Jaskier did not repeat himself, which meant he’d guessed right.

White Wolf. He wondered if that was to become his moniker - the hero Jaskier would praise in his futile ambition to change the public’s perception of him. It wasn’t bad, certainly better than most nicknames he’d received. Still, it had a theatrical flair that he wasn’t quite sold on. He wasn’t some noble warrior, and had no desire to be perceived as such. He simply wanted… what? To be looked upon as equal to human, as at least neutral rather than evil? But that too felt dishonest. As much of the Witcher reputation had come free of charge with the mutations, he’d crafted some of it himself. He’d done terrible things - truly, morally bad. He could never be sure the good he did outweighed it. He followed a code, but was it a righteous one? He didn’t know what he wanted. He wasn’t someone who was supposed to want at all.

Jaskier was humming again, admiring the pretty bit of metal that he twirled between his fingers. 

“Will you sleep tonight?” Geralt asked. 

Though his eyes drooped and all night he’d matched Geralt’s every yawn, Jaskier shook his head. 

“Had enough for a lifetime,” he said, with no joviality whatsoever. 

“If you collapse on the road tomorrow, I’ll leave you to your fate,” Geralt said, dryly. 

Jaskier didn’t laugh, but exhaled sharply with a smile on his lips. 

“Anyway,” the bard said, “If I fall asleep, we’ll be soaked,” he gestured to the rain, which had slowed significantly as the night grew dark. It wasn’t more than a drizzle, but would certainly be enough to put a chill in their bones. 

Geralt nodded.

“You look ready to drop,” Jaskier observed, and Geralt felt it too. The rain, the warmth, the low light, and his full belly all dragged him further into a doze that would become a deep slumber if he were to entertain it. 

“Hmm.” 

“I could sing a lullaby if you’d like.”

“You try to sing me to sleep, and I’ll string you up in that tree over there,” he said with no malice, gesturing with a thumb to a sturdy looking oak nearby.

“Grumpy,” Jaskier replied, and Geralt could hear the amusement in his voice. 

Geralt folded his hands behind his head and let his eyes drift closed. Jaskier did begin to sing, but Geralt could not tell whether it was a lullaby or not, as it was not in common nor any other language he was fluent in. He hoped it wasn’t a lullaby, that would mean he’d have to get up and make good on his promise, and he was so very comfortable on his bedroll.

It was something low and slow that sounded like honey in Jaskier’s clear tenor. It was soothing, just a hint of the reverberation of his rain song creeping in on the notes he held. Some sort of magic worked over him, he was sure. He didn’t know if it simply made the bard’s voice sound more pleasant, or whether it would carry him into sleep more quickly. He found himself not caring, as caring and thought grew steadily more difficult. Cottony sleep settled over him, and he grasped at his train of thought just a second too late to catch it. 

The smell of the rain mingled in the air with bitter dandelion milk, and as the world slipped away, Geralt inhaled deeply. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been listening to the Witcher audiobooks and now when I write dialogue all I can hear in my head are the voices the narrator uses for them. Also am obsessed with the concept of Jaskier being able to d&d-bard-esque magic.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where necessity and wanting collide.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have absolutely no concept of distance or time as they pertain to travel by foot. Or like, in general.

In the morning there were bruise-like bags beneath Jaskier’s eyes and a gentle sway to his slowed step that Geralt chose not to draw extraneous attention to. He only laughed a little, a harsh chuckle that caught in his throat, and said, “You look like shit, bard.”

Jaskier replied in kind, and with an equally mirthless laugh. It was a problem that would need to be addressed, soon, as Geralt was sure they both knew. Today wasn’t the day, though. The bard was still moving alright, keeping up his cheerful chatter as they walked, still along the river. 

They were headed west along one of the smaller rivers that was fed by the Pontar. Soon they’d meet up with the main river, and probably cross over to the Redanian side. About a week's travel after that, and they’d be skirting Rinde. Geralt would have to make a choice, then. After Rinde there was no place to stop for supplies until they neared the coast - another two week’s journey if they moved quickly, and without incident. If they pushed through, they’d be fully dependent on whatever food and supplies they could forage from the forest. There would be no possibility of medicine if either of them were injured, no food if prey was scarce. That was all fine when it was just Geralt on his own - he could easily make do - but with Jaskier along things became more complicated.

Though Jaskier was no closer to human than Geralt - in fact, he was  _ further - _ the bard was needier. Geralt’s mutations made him the ultimate survivalist, shrugging off hunger pains and burning out mild infections as if they were no more than a petty bother. He could meditate when energy ran low, his endurance alone pushing him for kilometers past the limits of a normal man. Jaskier had none of these advantages. He was soft, he needed to eat and sleep regularly, and though far less so than if he’d been human, was weak to injury, sickness, and infection. Depending on their luck, and Geralt seemed to only attract the bad kind, whether they stopped in Rinde or not could become a question of life or death. 

So the decision before Geralt was this: trust Jaskier. Stop for supplies, knowing that Rinde was not lacking in either friends or enemies, believe that when the bard learned his name he would not use it, just as he did not slit Geralt’s throat in the night, or strike him down with word and song. Make life easier for both of them, more comfortable not only through surplus rations and supplies, but through the trust it might foster.

Or, he could trust his instincts and training - the humming medallion at his chest. Push on and let the consequences fall where they may. They’d both suffer for it - but surely it was the safe thing to do? The smart thing? Fae were dangerous, the only difference was that this one was pretending he was not.

Geralt held no personal ill will for the bard, much as he may posture and grumble and shout, the company was nice. It was worth whatever irritation came with it, and he could feel the tiniest buds of trust beginning to sprout within himself. 

Yet, the medallion hummed on. 

It was a very good thing, he thought, that he had a week to come to his decision. A great deal could change in the space of a week.

“Right, Witcher?” 

Geralt suddenly realized that Jaskier was talking to him.

“No,” he said reflexively. Then, “Wait, I’m sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.”

Jaskier made a sour face, and said nothing.

“Tell me,” Geralt insisted, “What were you saying?”

“No,” Jaskier shook his head obstinately, “Since you’re so obviously otherwise occupied, I won’t burden you with my bothersome drivel.”

“Don’t be difficult,” Geralt said, his patience wearing. 

“I  _ said _ ,” Jaskier began pointedly, “That we ought to stop when the river widens again.”

“Why’s that?” 

“Your arm’s not been cleaned, and the blood in your hair is beginning to stink,” Jaskier gestured to Geralt’s badly bandaged forearm. He’d never excelled at tending his own wounds, and it was especially tricky when it was his arm - trying to work with only one hand usable was awkward at best. The bandages were half soaked through, and they looked as though they would come undone at the slightest whisper of a breeze.

“It’s fine,” he said.

“So stubborn,” Jaskier said, though he wasn’t looking at Geralt anymore. He reached out to touch Roach’s face, and the mare tossed her head before leaning into his hand, “Hey, Roach? Isn’t he stubborn?”

“Are you talking to my horse?” Geralt scowled.

“Yes,” Jaskier said, “Why not? She listens far better than you.”

Roach was an excellent listener, it was true. The animal had an intelligence in her big eyes that seemed almost supernatural at times. She hated everyone except Geralt, and - apparently - Jaskier. Geralt wasn’t jealous. 

“Hmm.” And he knew that when the river widened, they would indeed stop.

“Didn’t think you’d be so eager to get back in the water,” he said. 

Jaskier shrugged, “Life goes on,” he said, “If I’m going to be attacked, I’m going to be attacked. It’s completely out of my control. I can’t stop living my life, can’t spend my days cowering in fear. Besides, with a Witcher at my side, I’d say the odds are stacked quite heavily in my favour.”

“Hmm.” It was an interesting philosophy, and a surprisingly  _ human _ one. Fae, as a rule, were creatures who favoured comfort and would not put themselves into perilous situations if they had even the smallest inkling of pain being a possibility. They liked to inflict it, but to experience it was abhorrent. The fae Geralt had dealt with before would have insisted upon keeping as far from the river as possible, the water having proven itself to be wholly untrustworthy. 

Jaskier didn’t seem to mind so much. He embraced danger as a natural part of life, and seemed to revel in the discomfort that a life on the road with a Witcher brought. 

It was strange. Even amongst the fickle, peculiar fae, Jaskier was odd. Not quite like the others. He had a vague hunch as to why that was, but nothing that beared entertaining just yet. For all he knew the bard was just weird.

Whether that made Geralt more or less inclined towards trust remained to be seen.

They walked on for a few more hours before the water of the river grew deeper. They stopped, as Jaskier had said, and Geralt knelt at the riverbed, pulling his shirt off over his head. 

Jaskier was stripping again. Clad in only his underclothes he waded into the cool water, and beckoned for Geralt to join him. 

Geralt shook his head, “Fine here,” he said. He unwound the soiled bandage from his arm and discarded it, dunking the ravaged skin roughly and scrubbing his hand over the dried blood. 

Jaskier approached, offering a hand. 

“Come on,” he said. 

Geralt shook his head, “I’m fine, really. I just need to clean the wound.”

Jaskier sighed, “It’s not about need. It’s nice to feel clean, and it’s nice to sit in the water a while,” he reached out, more adamant, “I’ll wash your hair,” he said. 

Geralt’s brow furrowed, he wasn’t sure about all of that.  _ Not about need _ \- did Jaskier know who he was talking to? Witchers lived according to need, not whim or want. He was no different. It was all he knew. He ate because it made him strong, slept because it kept him sharp, bathed because it kept infection out and made it easier to get work. None of it had to do with his own pleasure. Sex - sex was pleasure. But it too kept him sharp, minimized distraction. Each and every facet of his life was utterly purposeful. 

He stared at Jaskier’s hand, but made no move to take it. So Jaskier moved. 

He reached down and grabbed Geralt’s hand, tugging him slowly but insistently, deeper into the river. It still wasn’t terribly deep, about waist high in the very middle. The rocks were slippery with moss - not a problem for Geralt’s enhanced reflexes, but he did have to steady the bard a couple of times. 

Geralt didn’t know what surprised him most - the bard’s audacity, or the fact of his own willingness. He did not resist, couldn’t. 

Jaskier sank to his chest, and tugged Geralt down with him. He moved behind the Witcher and roughly pulled the bit of leather cording from his hair. 

“You fix the arm,” he said, “I’ll do this.” 

“Hmm.” 

But still, Geralt did not protest. He cleaned the dried blood and filth from his arm, rinsing the cool, clear river water over it. Jaskier set to work wetting and washing the Witcher’s hair. The water felt good running down his scalp and neck, and perhaps he hadn’t realized how dirty he truly was. He thought absently as he leaned back that at the rate Jaskier was going, they’d be sitting in the river until dusk. His fingers moved through the tangled mess far too slowly, too gently. It felt nice, sure, but it was no way to get the job done. 

Nice. It was nice, soothing in a way that was at once familiar and foreign. The pleasure put a sick feeling in Geralt’s gut, and once his arm was cleaned he shooed Jaskier’s careful, nimble hands away.

“I can do it,” he said gruffly. He ducked his head under the water, scrubbing over his scalp and tearing through the knots. More harshly than necessary, maybe, but it got the job done. Unlike Jaskier, who would have sat there for hours picking every snag apart until his hair was perfectly smooth. 

No time for that, no need for it. 

No need.

Jaskier followed Geralt out of the river when he stood, and when he started trying to re-bandage his arm, the bard stopped him.

“You’ll make a mess of it,” he said, and his voice had grown soft. Geralt saw an epiphany in his eyes - they shone with it. 

He first dabbed an herbal salve on the wound, slender fingers just ghosting over the broken skin, recoiling when Geralt flinched almost imperceptibly at the sting. He wrapped it then, with fresh, clean bandages in a practiced motion.

When Jaskier finished, Geralt nodded and did not say thank you. Jaskier did not expect him to. They dressed and Geralt mounted Roach before they set off again, Jaskier considering for a moment before speaking.

“You know,” he began, slow, careful, “The really nice thing about having a traveling companion is that you don’t have to do everything on your own.”

“Hmm.”

He still felt a bit ill, ashamed of how he missed the bard’s gentle hands. He  _ wanted- _ he was not made for want. He was made out of necessity, and kept it and death in equal parts as his constant companions. Geralt was, as he’d been told his whole life, the bare minimum of person-hood. He was not made for want. 

But he did want. And it made him sick. 

Jaskier, seeming to sense the shift in Geralt’s mood, navigated the conversation to a lighter topic. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask - have you ever met a vampire before? I’ve always sort of wanted to meet a vampire. Morbid curiosity, I suppose. Do they really look like corpses?”

“Yes, I have,” Geralt said, grateful for the distraction, “Depends what sort of vampire, but I suppose some look less corpse-like than I do. Though some far more so.”

“There are different kinds?”

He nodded, “Some much closer to human than others. Higher vampires, for example, are nearly indistinguishable from a normal human, until they chose to reveal otherwise. Even this,” he caught the silver wolf medallion with his thumb and held it out for Jaskier to see, “Doesn’t always pick up on them.”

“They must be very dangerous, then.”

Geralt shook his head, “The opposite. They only drink blood recreationally, and keep mostly to themselves. Aside from being immortal, they’re not much different from a normal human.”

“Fascinating,” and Jaskier really did look interested. More than that, he looked relieved. Geralt was too - monsters were a safe subject, one he could talk about for hours. 

“They’re not all like that, though? What about the other kinds?”

“There are many. Bruxae, Nosferats, Katakans, most can assume the form of a human, though in true nature are monstrous and bat-like. Vicious, bloodthirsty things, but most are close to if not matching human intelligence,” he paused, “I don’t really like to kill them.”

“No?” Jaskier looked surprised.

“Hmm. If a beast can be reasoned with, I prefer that. Vampires, for the most part, have that capacity. Some, of course, are unerringly hostile and need killing, but if I can convince an unruly bruxa to leave a town in peace, I’ll do it.”

“The pacifict Witcher,” Jaskier said with a laugh, “Nobody would believe that ballad.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt had little taste for ballads, they exaggerated, fed rumor, and made his life more difficult.  _ What do you  _ mean _ you can’t defeat a whole nest of kikimores blindfolded? That ballad said Witchers were unkillable! _

Folk songs were alright, but ballads of heroes and battles were, in his rather extensive experience, complete bullshit more often than not. 

Perhaps it was ironic, then, that Geralt would find himself traveling with a bard. Jaskier was determined to change his reputation, and would no doubt achieve the feat through grossly overstated accounts of his deeds. 

He watched Jaskier as he walked ahead, rattling off questions and assumptions about vampires - a little to Geralt but mostly just talking to himself. There was an inquisitive streak in him that Geralt admired. 

He watched, and he liked it, liked watching the theatre of the bard’s movement. 

Geralt felt a little sick again, and he kept watching.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is quickly devolving into "not to me, not if it's you" and I just can't even be mad at it. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and commenting <3 I'm quite shy about replying but please know that I hold each of them dear and reread them all the time.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shatter.

The week’s journey to Rinde passed swiftly, and did very little to ease the difficulty of the decision before Geralt. That is, whether or not to risk taking Jaskier into a town where Geralt was likely to be recognized, and the secret of his name was to be revealed. As Rinde became visible through the trees and over the hills, he felt just as unsure - just as uneasy - as he had the first day they travelled together. 

Perhaps even moreso, because he was really starting to  _ like _ the bard. The nature of fae creatures were that of brutal charmers. They’d evolved on the principle that flies were easier caught with honey than vinegar, and lured their victims in with sweet platitudes and favours and pretty faces. It would make sense, then, that if Jaskier  _ did _ have some gruesome bit of mischief planned, he would want to draw Geralt in, make him feel safe and secure, and then strike when his guard was down. It was the only explanation for his friendliness and cheer that made any sense at all.

And if he was being subtly charmed, that would quite easily explain the warmth he felt in his chest when he looked at the bard, which grew stronger with each passing day. Jaskier must be very powerful, to so easily and without detection put a Witcher under such a spell. All the more reason to distrust him, yet that damned warmth made it so difficult for him to do so, to trust his instincts. 

Something like a routine emerged. Geralt discovered that Jaskier actually had given in to sleep, unable to take the exhaustion anymore. He’d rest a few fitful hours at a time in the wee hours of the morning. Geralt woke up in the night sometimes to hear the bard crying out, gasping for air, cursing someone called Marx. 

He would say other, less troubled things in his sleep too, sighing the word Witcher, or Poppet. He’d laugh, he’d sing, but he always returned to the whimpering, choked cries that made Geralt’s brow furrow, and chest hurt. 

In the mornings, Geralt would say nothing of it. He wouldn’t ask who any of the people he spoke of were, wouldn’t ask what he’d dreamed, wouldn’t comment on the hollowness in his eyes that seemed to grow bigger every day. 

They’d spend the day traveling along the river, the journey growing easier once they crossed into Redania and had trade routes to follow. They didn’t stray too far from the Pontar, but did elect to use the even dirt roads, which were easier for both Roach and Jaskier to traverse than the uneven ground at the river’s edge, punctuated as it was by sharp rocks and twisted tree roots. 

Jaskier would chat to him, or sing. Ask questions about various beasts, or regale Geralt with tales of the fae courts. Though he did suspect that the bard had somewhat blunted the sharp edges of what his life had been. 

Geralt was perhaps not as generous a conversation partner as might have been, but Jaskier talked enough for two, and so the quiet seldom lasted long enough to become uncomfortable. The bard was quietest in the mornings, his mind, Geralt guessed, still occupied by whatever he’d dreamt in the night. He’d come to life quickly, though. 

One afternoon, Geralt asked Jaskier what he’d actually done to earn his extended nap in the bog. 

Jaskier scowled, “I gave a rotten scoundrel nothing more than what he deserved, and he threw a temper tantrum.”

“Oh?” Geralt raised an eyebrow, a smile playing at the edge of his lips.

“Hmm. My rival, the thoroughly uncreative and incredibly derivative Valdo Marx, a blight on the bardic tradition and degradation of the word poet,” Jaskier began, “Trust me when I say, Witcher, that words like bastard and villain are far kinder than he deserves, especially now.”

“What did he do?”

“Where to start!” Jaskier laughed bitterly, “He revelled in upstaging me at every opportunity, stealing my notebooks and performing songs which I’d not yet debuted, claiming them as his own. He made slanderous accusations, took my own words out of context and twisted them until I sounded like the most reprehensible of wastrels. Stole work away from me, Witcher, you name it, he’s done it.”

“What did  _ you _ do?”

The bard balked, “Nothing! I am and have always been completely innocent.”

“Clearly not,” Geralt argued, “If he saw fit to put you in the ground.”

“Well,” a mischievous smile crept over Jaskier’s face, “Maybe not  _ completely _ innocent. But he deserved every inch of it!”

Geralt waited, expectant. 

“Fifty years, and I suppose six months ago, I grew tired of Marx’s antics. I wanted my revenge, and so I got it. He’d taken a lover the year before, and I had it from a reliable source that he intended to wed the lady. Well, it was all too easy to coax her into an affair, she practically threw herself into my arms when I played my lute for her. ‘Let me show you what a real artist is,’ I said, and showed her the time of her life. Later I was appalled to learn that Marx never even made her-”

“On with it,” Geralt said.

“Alright, alright. The bastard had this lovely woman and was an extremely  _ ungenerous _ lover. That simply wouldn’t do. We continued our affair, in secret, of course. But she really was lovely,” Jaskier’s eyes went dreamy, “So lovely, in fact, that she became my muse. I think she must have loved me, at least a little, because shortly before we were discovered, she told me that she intended to leave Valdo to be with me. I was flattered, of course, and rather smitten myself,” he was red around the ears, “I wrote ballads for her, epics, ditties, for months I sang only of her. I suppose I must’ve really been in love, to sing of only one person.”

“It seems that I was far less subtle in my affections than I’d thought. I’ve never really been good at that, though. In any case, Marx began to suspect that the lady was no longer his, and a particular song I sang one evening confirmed it for him. He cornered me late that night, we struggled, and, well - you know the rest.”

Jaskier fell quiet for a time afterwards. Geralt thought the story was a little funny, but did not say so. He wondered if Jaskier missed the fae lady, supposed he would run back to her open arms once his debts were repaid. Provided she would still have him after so long. Fae didn’t age, but much could change over fifty years. 

It seemed Jaskier’s train of thought had found a similar track, because he said quietly, “I wonder if they ever married?”

Geralt didn’t know what to say, and so said nothing. He felt a deep sympathy for the bard, it was difficult not to, when he smelled so strongly of despair, of longing. 

Later, Jaskier told him a story that evoked an entirely different feeling. 

“I asked the fool for his name, and he told me! Can you believe it? He said, ‘It’s Vladimir, scum, though I don’t permit the likes of you to use it,” he did an exaggerated impression of the man’s slurred accent, “The most unpleasant fellow I ever met, I tell you, Witcher - and so I smiled as widely as I could, and said, ‘Vladimir? Sir, I’m afraid I don’t know a Vladimir. The man doesn’t exist.’ And I’m sure you can guess what happened next. You should have seen the look on his face as he stood there fading away, priceless, just priceless.” The bard laughed, and mimicked an expression of horror. 

Geralt did not smile, and looked straight ahead. He felt uncomfortable, and for the first time in days wondered whether he was in the company of a monster. 

“I wonder,” the Witcher said slowly, “If he had any family? Any little children that ceased to exist as their father did? A wife left with a feeling of emptiness that she couldn’t explain? How many people, do you think, couldn’t even remember to miss him?”

The period of silence that followed was the longest since they’d met. 

Then, only a day later, Jaskier sang the same song about pirates thrice in the same evening. When Geralt inquired as to why, Jaskier cocked his head and replied with a gentleness in his eyes.

“You always smile when I sing that one.”

Geralt felt a heat in his face, and he got up and went to check on Roach without saying a word. 

Jaskier was a mess of contradiction. Softness and mischief and sharp tongue and sweet voice. His eyes were cornflower and steel, his actions revealed great compassion and cruelty in equal measure. 

As they rode up on Rinde, Geralt felt more confused than ever. He liked the bard, a great deal more than he perhaps should have, but wondered whether real trust could ever be part of their relationship. Sometimes he’d say things that disgusted Geralt, and sometimes things that made the warmth in his chest flare. 

The situation came to a head, and the decision was made - only not at all the way Geralt had intended for things to go. 

A bit of parchment was nailed to a tree in the forest just outside of Rinde. Geralt didn’t cast it a second look, but Jaskier pulled it free and read it aloud.

“Be warned, fair traveller! Most foul beasts, devourers of warm flesh, the  _ night witches _ , roam this forest. Should ye be caught by night, pray to the Eternal Fire to light your way. Fifty crowns per head will be given to any warrior brave enough to face the beasts,” he said, rather theatrically. 

The sun was setting, the woods soon to be overrun. Geralt did not comment. 

“What do you say, Witcher?” Jaskier asked, “Slaughter a few beasts, pay for a stay in an inn? I do seem to recall you promising me a hot bath and a good meal, neither of which you’ve yet delivered on.” 

Geralt still said nothing. He tried, and failed to come up with a good reason to stay away from town. He wasn’t ready to decide yet, things were too complicated still. 

“You don’t mean to tell me that these things would give you pause? That you’re afraid?”

Geralt shook his head. 

“Then what?”

“I’d rather not waste time in town,” he said carefully.

“Waste time?” Jaskier was confused, “I thought we had no destination? Surely you'd find work in town?”

Geralt sighed, and thought that perhaps it would be best to be honest. 

“I have… friends, in Rinde,” he said.

“What, you don’t want me to meet your friends?” 

“It’s… a matter of safety.”

“Safety? You must have very dangerous friends, but - oh.” A dark look crossed Jaskier’s face as he understood. 

“I thought - but I suppose not,” Jaskier said, his voice even and dangerous, “So, despite the fact I’ve given you no reason to distrust me, you’ve trusted me with a  _ blade _ , and I can’t even actually kill you while I remain in your debt, you’re still hung up on the name bit.”

“There are things worse than death - things you’re more than capable of,” Geralt said quietly, “And every story you tell me about taking revenge on some powerless human gives me more cause for worry.”

Jaskier threw his hands in the air. 

“That was a long time ago! And those acts, since I awoke, have come to repulse me just as much as you. I’d never hurt you, Witcher, and I can’t believe that you think I would,” he shook his head, equally hurt as he was angry. 

“What do you want me to say, Jaskier?” Geralt growled. He picked up the humming medallion, whose rhythm had become more aggressive, “Ever since I dug you up, this thing won’t leave me alone. It reminds me day and night what you are, what you’ve done. I’ve been taught my whole life not to trust folk like you. It’s not so easy to shake off, especially with a constant reminder around my neck. Please, try to understand me.”

“I think I do,” Jaskier nodded, “I think I understand, but I beg you - stop me if I’m amiss. So,” he began with a hollow laugh, “You cannot trust me because of what you’ve been told about my people, the rumours - true and false! - have coloured your opinion of me and caused you to fear me,” he paused, and laughed again, “Does that attitude sound  _ at all _ familiar to you? Witcher?”

With a start, Geralt realized that Jaskier was right. It  _ was _ familiar, painfully so. It was how he was greeted anywhere he went. With distrust and fear, their preconceived notions of him formed by years of prejudice and propaganda. 

Geralt felt a little like he’d been punched in the stomach, all the wind gone out of him. He didn’t know what to say. He’d thought himself justified, surely he was? He was not so ignorant as the townsfolk who stoned him in the market square, unaware he’d saved them all mere minutes ago. He couldn’t be. Geralt scowled, and felt ashamed. 

“Get down!” Jaskier’s voice boomed suddenly. Reflexively, Geralt dropped to the forest floor. He grabbed Jaskier’s arm and tried to pull him down with him, but the bard shook him off. 

Jaskier clapped once, and yelled, “Stop!” 

The sound was unnaturally loud, reverberating and ringing and  _ sharp _ . It hurt Geralt’s ears, his head, all the way down to the base of his spine. He gritted his teeth against the pain. The noise was followed shortly by a squeal, a wet, gurgling, choking sound, and the heavy thump of a dead thing falling to the forest floor. 

Geralt looked up, and was greeted by the sight of a dead devourer only inches from his face. Her throat looked like it’d exploded from the inside, gruesomely torn apart. Thick, black blood dribbled from the beast’s ears, eyes, and nose. 

It was so close to him. It’d almost had him, and his swords - presently strapped to Roach’s saddlebag - would not have saved him. He’d been taken unawares, distracted by his revelation and unbothered by the now constant humming of his medallion. 

Geralt stood, slowly, not taking his eyes off the devourer. 

“That’s one, Witcher,’ Jaskier said coldly, “You’ll soon be rid of me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: perhaps consider the consequences of your actions  
> Jaskier: perhaps stop being a little bitch
> 
> Y'all this is the longest I've ever stuck with a fic and It's 100% because of you. Thank you all so much for reading, I hope you're all staying safe and doing well. So much love <3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A struggle.

Geralt and Jaskier did not go to Rinde. Instead, they stayed out in the forest that night, picking off the occasional bold devourer that dared to get too close. Between the Witcher’s swift sword and the bard’s deft magic, the beasts soon learned it was best to stay away. Though not before what would exchange for a pretty sum in the morning had accumulated. With what they stood to make off the corpses, they’d be able to buy enough supplies to last them all the way to Oxenfurt and halfway up the Redanian coast. 

Despite their good financial fortune, the mood was sour. The argument hung heavy in the air around them - the atmosphere as they made camp was almost unbearable. There was an ugly, strained tension between Jaskier and Geralt that even Roach seemed to pick up on. She whined and tossed her head, not wanting to settle no matter how Geralt tried to calm her. 

Nothing improved as the hour waned. Twilight seemed to last only moments, the sun quickly setting beyond the horizon with little fanfare. It gave way to a sky that was oppressive in its dark, starless gloom. 

Geralt sat prodding the dying campfire with a stick, glancing every few minutes at Jaskier. The bard sat opposite him, his back against a wide tree trunk and knees pulled into his chest. Where looking at Jaskier usually made Geralt feel warm and content, now he felt cold. 

Cornflower, and steel, and now ice. When Jaskier deigned to look at Geralt, his gaze froze him in place. He felt unable to move until the eye contact broke. 

It was fine, it really was. Maybe even better. Being hated was nothing Geralt could not handle, in fact it was easier. There was far less pretense involved, far less being betrayed and fucked over. If Jaskier hated him, they wouldn’t have to dance around each other, waving facsimiles of trust and friendship about like ribbons. No pretending, no playacting. 

Better, it was better.

Why, then, did Geralt feel so awful? It was a feeling somewhere between angry and sad, and it made him want to break something. It made him want to throttle the bard, force him to understand somehow. He wanted Jaskier to say, “Yes, of course you’re right, I’m sorry.” and for things to go back to normal. He wanted the tension to go away so he could fucking  _ breathe _ . 

He wanted Jaskier to stop looking at him like he was thinking the exact same thing. 

When the two were forced by circumstance to speak, their words dripped with a formality and coolness that made every sentence reek of passive aggression and pettiness. They worked out through clipped sentences that Jaskier would take the first watch, and that in the morning Geralt would go into town alone while the bard waited at the city gate. They went over the supplies they’d need, and Jaskier made a few requests, to which Geralt gave a stilted nod. 

Geralt wondered, not for the first time, but seriously now, whether he could abandon the bard in the night. Pack up Roach while Jaskier slept, be off on his way, and forget the whole thing had ever happened. Forget every contradiction that made his head spin, forget the icy eyes that pierced him, and all the shouting and demanding. Forget the gentle hands and sweet songs. 

The Witcher scowled. That heat was back in his chest, but now it felt uncomfortable, burning and painful. He wished for a moment that he could swap the sullen, angry Jaskier before him for the happy one in his memory. Geralt knew he’d travel with that Jaskier again in heartbeat, but this one? It’d have been better to be alone again, Roach his only company, than to be stuck in this haze of tension and bitterness. At least he would have been able to relax a little. 

And that  _ fucking _ medallion wasn’t making anything easier. It hummed unhelpfully against his chest, rendered useless by Jaskier’s constant presence. Geralt grit his teeth, seething. He thought about breaking things again, his fists clenched, Jaskier was looking at him, he was going to-

Geralt stood abruptly and stalked off without a word.

The night passed with little incident and even less rest. Geralt woke from a fitful sleep in an even fouler mood than before. Jaskier, as he always did, awoke looking haunted and still very tired. Only instead of coming quickly to life over the course of the morning, he remained so as they made the walk up toward Rinde. He did not acknowledge Geralt’s departure, and Geralt did not expect him to. 

The Witcher had thought that upon leaving Jaskier’s proximity he might be able to relax a little. That was, however, not the case. The tension between them did not break but stretched, thinned, seized up and compounded. Geralt snapped at the mayor as he collected payment, spoke in rude, short sentences to the shopkeeps, and nearly  _ growled _ at a group of laughing children who’d irritated him. 

When he was finished at the market, Geralt swiftly took his leave from the city. He felt foolish as he did so, for he hadn’t seen a single acquaintance, friend, or even  _ enemy _ the whole time he was there. His precautions, the fight, the sick feeling in his gut, it was all for nought. He really was nothing more than a foolish, paranoid old Witcher. 

As he grew closer to the city gate, the medallion resumed its humming. Geralt hadn’t even noticed it stop, but as it started up again he wished that his Witcher eyes would let him cry his frustration out. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said stiffly as he rejoined the bard. Jaskier simply held out his hands for his parcel, which Geralt shoved roughly at him. 

Jaskier said nothing, but disappeared behind some nearby bushes to change into the sturdy, practical traveling clothes. When he reemerged, tugging at the plain garments and making faces, Geralt held out something the bard hadn’t asked for. 

“Free of obligation,” he said.

Jaskier scowled, but the second his fingers touched the lute, his face relaxed. The bard snatched it, and turned from Geralt just as quickly. 

Geralt had seen the instrument hanging in a shop window, and had circled around the store like a vulture for a good half hour before the clerk stuck her head out the door and yelled at him to make up his damn mind already. 

He went back and forth a million times, but in the end he couldn’t bring himself to leave it. Not when it might make Jaskier look at him with a little more kindness. 

Because yes, it was better if there was no attachment, no feigned trust or friendship, no warmth or kindness between them. But there  _ had _ been kindness, and now the absence of it knocked the wind out of Geralt. It was worse than if it had never been there at all, and he’d come to realize as he stood staring at the lute that he wanted it back. He was not made for wanting, and yet he ached with it. He was caught between it and his pride, and maybe he thought the gift would make things better. Set the bard back to rights without Geralt having to apologize, admit to any wrongdoing, or talk about it at all. 

Unfortunately, in practice it was not the easy solution Geralt so desperately desired. 

In practice, Jaskier’s eyes softened to something like gratitude, but hardened quickly back to bitterness. He nodded to the Witcher, and that was the end of it. 

Now, realistically Geralt hadn’t expected the lute to fix things completely, hadn’t expected Jaskier to fall at his feet and beg for reconciliation, but some verbal fucking acknowledgement of the gift would have been nice. Neither the cost nor the amount of his pride he’d had to swallow to manage the ordeal had been small, and all he got for his trouble was a nod. 

Geralt didn’t know who he hated more - himself for doing it, or Jaskier for not appreciating it enough. 

They resumed their journey without a word, reentering the forest and joining back up with the Pontar. The river was wide and deep, but moved so slowly it was almost stagnant. Geralt was grateful for the spring chill that persisted in the air. In the hot summer months, the stink of the water was almost unbearable. 

The Witcher sighed, more to interrupt the quiet than anything else. Jaskier had this way of making Geralt feel his silence like a physical thing pushing down on him. He wanted to shout, just to break the spell. 

He stared ahead at the bard. The contradiction, the argument playing over and over in his mind, what he should have said, still wanted to say - it made Geralt’s head ache. 

It should have been easy. Jaskier wasn’t human, but he was humanoid, and - so far - not a threat. He didn’t kill the bard for those two simple reasons, and for most like Jaskier that would have been enough. Geralt wasn’t used to the creatures he spared wanting more than that from him. The pests he shooed away from unwelcoming villages didn’t say things like, “I’d never hurt you, Witcher, I can’t believe you think I would,” or, “A little trust, Witcher, not too much to ask.” 

If they’d just been  _ people _ , just Geralt and Jaskier, a hunter and a bard, trust would have come naturally. It would have been followed by an easy friendship, and-

They weren’t people. Geralt could never forget that. 

The hardest part was the confusion. He doubted himself, because he saw what Jaskier meant about him behaving with prejudice, even though the bard had never made any move to harm him. It was, however, difficult to reconcile that with the stories of revenge Jaskier laughed about and delighted in. Stories that he said disgusted him now. He claimed to be different, said he’d changed, but had he? Could he? The bard wasn’t lying, certainly. That was a skill beyond the capability of any creature of the fae realm. So Jaskier at least  _ believed _ he’d changed. That wasn’t the same as changing, though. 

Geralt nearly sighed with relief when he heard the first strum of the new lute. The tune was quick, jaunty, and sharply punctuated with staccato notes. When Jaskier started to sing, though, relief turned quickly to exasperation. 

It was a song Geralt knew, one that followed him around the continent. A song children liked to sing, a lighthearted jig listing all the animals one could compare a Witcher to. Grunt like a boar, mean like a goat, stink like a horse, eyes like a cat, and so on. 

Geralt smiled wryly, “I know that one,” he said. 

Jaskier sang louder. Geralt felt the tension in his shoulders lessen, and he took a deep breath. Mean was better than quiet. Besides which, he’d always thought the song was a little bit funny. 

He finished the song with a flourish and threw half a glance back at Geralt.

“Any requests, Witcher?”

“No.”

“Very well,” Jaskier launched into a ballad, the story of a wicked Witcher brought to justice by a valiant knight. This one was far less funny, especially in the excruciating detail with which the author had described the Witcher’s ultimate fate. 

Geralt rolled eyes, and suddenly began to miss the oppressive silence. 

“Pettiness doesn’t suit you, bard,” he said through his teeth.

Jaskier turned, wearing a pleasant smile, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Witcher, pettiness suits me very well.” 

“You’re acting like a child.”

“Coming from you,” Jaskier scoffed amid the unflattering lyrics. 

Geralt’s jaw twitched. 

“If you’ve got something to say-”

“Nothing at all, Witcher! I’ve got nothing to say to you,” Jaskier went on with his song, and Geralt nearly flinched at the way he seemed to relish the violent lyrics. 

“Would you shut up, then?” he growled. 

“Why? Am I hurting your feelings? I thought you Witchers didn’t have those?” Jaskier said. His voice was mocking as he shouted above the lute. The knight in the song relieved the Witcher of each of his limbs, slowly. 

“Shut up,” Geralt said. He gripped Roach’s reins so tightly that he knew beneath his leather gloves the skin would be ghostly white. 

Jaskier sang louder. The knight took the Witcher's head as a trophy.

“Shut the fuck up, bard!” Geralt thundered, dismounting in a swift, practiced motion. He got in Jaskier’s face, a guttural snarl ripping from his chest. 

Jaskier fell silent, finally, mercifully. 

They stood like that, face to face and only inches apart for nearly a full minute. For the first time since they’d met, Geralt could smell the heady, overpowering stench of  _ fear _ coming off the bard in waves. He jerked away. Jaskier blinked at him with wide eyes that screamed, “You’ve hurt my feelings, and I hate you.” He took a step back, and then another, and then he turned. Jaskier walked away from Geralt, not quickly, not running away, not yet. 

The Witcher waited, let Jaskier put a few feet of distance between them before getting back onto Roach and following. The mare tossed her head and sighed, as if in judgement. It was exactly what he needed, really. For his horse to be mad at him too. 

The strumming resumed, but not a word fell from the bard’s lips. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geralt yelling at jaskier = the scene in monsters, inc. when sully roars and scares the shit out of boo


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Exhale.

It was Jaskier who first approached Geralt. He’d slung the lute over his shoulder and slowed his pace to let the Witcher catch up to him, walking alongside Roach and Geralt for several feet before looking up at him through long lashes, like a dog who knew it had misbehaved. 

Geralt felt as much like an out of line pup as the bard looked, and had expected that he would be the one to go to Jaskier with his tail between his legs. Geralt had started to come around to the thought that perhaps he didn’t know what was best all of the time. He was even working up to being able to own to it. He’d assumed that Jaskier, in all his chilly aloofness, was not similarly inclined. He wondered what had changed, what had softened the bard to this expression of sheepish apology. 

It was after about an hour had passed since Geralt’s outburst that Jaskier approached. The sun meandered to its peak in the sky behind the clouds, and a cool, humid haze had taken the day. It probably wouldn’t rain, but it was unpleasant all the same. 

Jaskier walked alongside Geralt and Roach, looking up at the Witcher. Geralt looked straight ahead, jaw tight, and cast an occasional side-eyed glance at the bard.

“Witcher?” Jaskier said, pleading in his voice. 

“Hmm.”

“The song, it was mean. I should have let it go when you told me,” he said.

“You shouldn’t have brought it up at all,” Geralt countered. 

Jaskier nodded, “I know. You’re right, I know. I regret my behaviour, I hope you’ll allow me to make it up to you.”

It was as close as any fae creature got to an apology, so Geralt nodded, and replied in kind.

“I shouldn’t have yelled. It won’t happen again,” and he meant it. He never again wanted to see fear in Jaskier’s eyes when he looked at him. If that meant learning to hold his temper, so be it. 

“Good,” Jaskier said, “Good. Excellent. Are we going to…?”

“What?”

“Are we going to talk about the other thing?”

Geralt cleared his throat, but said nothing. 

“Great, good. I’ll start then,” Jaskier began, and took a deep breath, “I have been, and please understand how difficult it is for me to say this, a bit ridiculous.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” Jaskier nodded, “Of course you don’t trust me. I am, well, what I am, and besides that, we’ve travelled together barely a week. And you… I mean I’ve been picking up through context clues, you know, a little reading between the lines - the world is not kind to you, Witcher. The song… it reminded me of that.”

“Hmm.”

“The world treats you terribly. I saw it in that village, and I see it in the way you look like a wounded animal whenever I offer you the slightest kindness,” he said, “I’ve known it from the beginning. Despite that, I’m still a romantic, a poet, and you my dashing saviour. I had this fantasy, the two of us as adventurers and the very best of friends. I think in my head we are not Witcher and fae, but hunter and bard. Real people. If we were real people, perhaps trust would not be so far out of the question. But I forgot what we are, and reacted as such, when you only treated me exactly as you ought to have done.”

The bard fell quiet, leaving Geralt to absorb his words. Jaskier had echoed the same thoughts that he’d had that very day. The Witcher frowned, and after a moment spoke.

“It’s not,” he sighed, “It’s not out of the question. But you’re right, the world is unkind to Witchers, and trust is not something I am naturally inclined to. Especially when the creature asking me to trust him is the very same to have revelled in tales of his revenge. Who’s to say I won’t piss you off again, Jaskier? I’m so very good at it. And if you knew my name, what then? If you’re truly ashamed of your deeds, you’ve done a very good job of hiding it.”

Jaskier had no answer to that, and his face contorted in something like confusion, or pain. 

“Have you ever stubbed your toe, Witcher?” he finally asked, “Or had your elbow glance off the corner of a table? It doesn’t hurt, or at least doesn’t hurt very badly, but you swear or cry out anyway because you know that it’s _supposed_ to hurt?” 

Geralt shook his head. He was very good at not hurting himself, and even better at suffering in silence.

“Well, of course _you_ haven’t. You understand the principal, though?” Jaskier looked up at him, brow still furrowed.

Geralt nodded, the brain’s perceived or conditioned response overriding the body's actual response. That was what made him so _good_ at suffering in silence.

“So I remember these things I’ve done, and the feeling comes to me first, how righteous I felt as the events transpired. And I think, here is a Witcher, who surely will appreciate my stories of wit and cleverness, and so I tell you. You see, the story is the stubbed toe. I remember it, and on instinct act as I believe I should based on past experience. Me telling you as if I was some hero is the same as crying out. Based on past experience, the story should make me feel good, just as stubbing a toe should cause pain. Then, I realize that the story makes me look quite evil, and I feel just as foolish as if I had cried out over an injury that hadn’t even hurt. Do you understand?”

“Hmm.”

It made sense if Geralt squinted. Perhaps it was not as good an analogy as the bard thought, or perhaps it was something far more difficult to explain than Geralt could comprehend. 

“And you’ve helped!” Jaskier said, “You never let me get away with it, you make me feel even _more_ foolish.”

“You said nothing, though,” Geralt wondered, “Why did you not say anything, stop me believing you were proud of the deeds? Why let me believe you still felt that way?”

Jaskier put his finger to the tip of his nose, “ _Proud_ , being the key word, Witcher. My people have got something of a warped sense of pride. It felt a bit like weakness. Can’t be admitting to that, now can I?” he smiled wryly.

Geralt mulled that over a moment. 

“You say they felt righteous before, though. You expected the stories to feel good. What’s changed?” he asked.

Jaskier shrugged, “I don’t know. But I don’t feel like I did before the whole, you know, _nap_ , incident. I wonder whether you left something of me in the earth. Or whether I took something from you, when we...” he trailed off.

The kiss came to Geralt’s mind. He couldn’t pretend he’d forgotten it. Jaskier had never acknowledged it before, and he wondered for a moment if the bard ever thought of it.

Jaskier went on, letting the memory that neither of them wanted to talk about hang in the air untouched. 

“I’m not quite myself right now, Witcher. And I don’t even know if that’s a bad thing. It gets worse, I think, the longer I’m away from my home,” Jaskier said.

Geralt recalled his hunch from earlier in the week, which was feeling less like a hunch and more like a very good guess all the time.

“I don’t think I’m the same person anymore, but leftover impulses have made me a mess of hypocrisy and half-truths. As I said, I can hardly blame you for not trusting me - I barely trust my own mind right now,” Jaskier said.

“Then why did you get so angry?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier laughed, “Because if anything is ever my fault, I think I’ll explode. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, Witcher, but accountability and blame are not concepts that I’m terribly friendly with.”

Geralt nodded, and let a small smile tug the corner of his mouth up. 

“And I suppose it hurt,” Jaskier continued, “It was a sharp reminder of reality, of what I am and what you are. The fact that we are a Witcher and a fae, not the simple people I had imagined us to be. You brought me back to reality, and I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to think about what we could never have. It was easier to get angry with you than to admit I was being fanciful.”

“It’s not out of the question,” Geralt said again after a moment’s silence.

Jaskier waited. 

“I believe you, about renouncing your past. I know a little of what it’s like to be horrified by what crimes your own hands have committed. I can’t condemn you for not having an easy go of it. So do not think that I cannot trust you, just know it will take time. Honestly, I have no real cause to suspect you’d harm me, outside of idle threats. Which,” he paused to cast a glance at the bard, “I perhaps should not have taken as seriously as I have. Occupational hazard, I suppose.”

Jaskier continued to wait, and Geralt knew what he was waiting for. 

“I’ve treated you badly, without reason,” and as much as it pained Geralt to admit it - “I was wrong.”

A hesitant smile bloomed across Jaskier’s face. 

“We’re both fools, aren’t we, Witcher?” he said.

Geralt almost smiled, “Speak for yourself, bard. I’m not foolish, I’m careful.”

“Paranoid,” Jaskier corrected with a laugh.

And speaking of which, there was one question that still plagued the Witcher’s mind. A thought that the bard’s words should have, by all rights, put to rest. It was silly that he was still hung up on it, silly that he couldn’t just accept Jaskier’s kindness without fear of some ulterior motive. 

“Can I ask something horrible?” he said, and the bard nodded. 

“Are you charming me?” Geralt asked, “Tell me the truth.”

Jaskier almost flinched, looking wide-eyed and startled. His natural grace faltered as he nearly tripped over a tree root, and struggled a moment to regain his balance.

“What?”

“Are you charming me, somehow? Using some sort of magic on me?”

“Oh I take it back, you’re not a fool, you’re an asshole,” Jaskier laughed, “A right fucking asshole.”

Geralt scowled, “Answer the question. Are you using any magic on me?”

“No,” Jaskier shook his head, incredulous, “ _Absolutely_ not.”

“I thought… You’re so… Then, why?”

“Why what?” Jaskier asked, “I’m so what?”

Geralt suddenly didn’t want to say. He felt stupid, and his scowl deepened.

“Tell me, Witcher. Out with it.”

“You’re here to fulfill a debt,” Geralt finally said, “You don’t have to be kind, but you are.”

“And you thought the only reason I’d do that is to put some sort of magic charm spell on you?”

Jaskier took Geralt’s silence as affirmation.

“That is the saddest thing I’ve ever heard, Witcher. I’m not trying to charm you, gods, I just happen to not be the absolute worst. Unlike, apparently, everyone else you’ve ever met,” the bard looked at once amused and concerned.

Geralt still felt foolish, and so said nothing. He focused on Roach’s head, bobbing in front of him. 

“Another reason to go into town, really,” Jaskier said, “Once I start singing of the brave, noble White Wolf, you’ll be hailed as a hero wherever you go. Though, I think the shock of not being treated like the filth on the world’s collective heel may actually kill you.”

“And why that?” Geralt asked, “You want to help with that, why?”

“Mostly,” Jaskier admitted, “I like a challenge. But also, if we’re going to be together a while, I’d rather not be attached to a pariah. And, you know,” he looked at the ground, kicking a stone along as he walked, “You don’t deserve to be treated that way.”

“Hmm.”

“Was that all, then?”

“Yes,” Geralt paused, “You… you ask me something horrible now.”

Jaskier laughed again, his good cheer apparently restored by Geralt’s antics.

“Alright, um, are you going to kill me in my sleep?” the bard asked, only joking a little.

Geralt made a face, “Do you worry about that?” 

Jaskier shrugged, “A bit, sometimes. You are just a smidge terrifying, especially when you shout, and when you - yes! Exactly like that,” - he pointed to the scowl that darkened Geralt’s brow - “And me being one of those irritating little fae things. Were you to tire of me, I wouldn’t stand a chance. So tell me; should I worry?”

Geralt shook his head, “No,” he said, “If I got sick of you I’d just leave. I told you, I don’t kill intelligent creatures unless I must.”

“And that’s the only reason you don’t gut me,” Jaskier snorted.

“Exactly,” Geralt said, but did smile a little. 

After a moment, Jaskier spoke again.

“So you’re not sick of me? Witcher? Do you _like_ having me around?” he teased.

Geralt shook his head, “Let’s not be hasty, bard.”

“Admit it,” Jaskier grinned up at him, “You were a lonely, grumpy old asshole until you found me.”

“And what am I now?”

“Just a grumpy old asshole.”

Geralt almost laughed.

“Ah, you don’t have to say it. I know you like me,” Jaskier said with confidence, his head held high. 

“How’s that?” Geralt raised an eyebrow.

“Well,” the bard said, one hand on his new lute, “You don’t buy lovely gifts for those you don’t like.”

“Bard’s no good without an instrument,” was the gruff excuse that the Witcher gave. 

“Sure,” Jaskier said. 

“You like it?” Geralt asked after a second, a hint of uncertainty audible in his deep voice. He shifted in his saddle.

“I adore it, Witcher,” the bard said softly, in an achingly genuine tone, “I adore even more that you thought of it, even angry as we both were.”

“Hmm.”

“See, that’s your happy grunt. I’m getting so good at this,” Jaskier said with a soft smile.

Geralt felt for the first time all day that he could breathe. Deeply, properly, all the way down to the pit of his belly. He felt good, felt right. When Jaskier looked up at him now it was with a sparkle of fondness in his cornflower eyes. Heat spread through the Witcher’s chest, a warmth which had more to do with the wildflower and dandelion milk scent that hung in the air than the sun that had come out from behind the cloud cover. It mixed with the way he sometimes felt a little sick for looking at the bard to create something new. Geralt watched Jaskier, reveling in the lovely discomfort of it. 

A gentle, cool breeze played in the bard’s dark hair, lifting it out of his too-blue eyes and framing his too-pretty face. Looking at the bard was a peculiar thing. Bits of him were brighter than they ought to have been, and lighting seemed not to affect him as it did the world around him. It was like he had his own, inward light. His own personal sun, following him around and casting only the most flattering light on him. Jaskier almost glowed, or shimmered sometimes, and that coupled with the way he moved made him both captivating and disconcerting to watch. 

His movements were perfect, graceful, and big. Geralt had before compared the bard to theatre, but now thought that perhaps dance was a more apt analogy. The Witcher had but once been treated to a real classical dance performance, and he saw the entertainers’ posture and light steps in the way Jaskier held himself. Sometimes, it was like he was gliding more than walking.

Geralt took in the curve of Jaskier’s neck, appreciated the smooth lines of his fingers as he pulled the lute in front of himself and began to pick out a happy melody. 

When the bard caught him looking and levelled him with a wink, Geralt rolled his eyes. It was good to have things back to normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am not in the habit of naming my chapters, but if I were, this one would be named as follows: "In which the foolish author tries desperately to claw her way out of the angst hole she's written herself into because if she doesn't get to write something heart-wrenchingly tender soon she may actually wither and die."
> 
> Dear readers, I think quarantine is beginning to drive me insane. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me, I love you all very much.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little less than a week has passed between the last chapter and this one.

The Pontar valley really was nice in the spring, with all the flora returning to life, and the fauna emerging from hibernation. It was warm, without the desperate humidity of the summer, and it had not yet occurred to the insects to make a nuisance of themselves. A symphony of chirping birds and rustling leaves seemed to blend seamlessly with the songs Jaskier played, as though nature itself couldn’t help but sing along with him. 

Geralt couldn’t blame the birds for wanting to add their own voices to the bard’s sweet melodies. He found himself tempted on occasion to do the same, but restrained himself out of embarrassment, or fear of ruining the music. 

The near unrelenting sound did grate on Geralt sometimes. It was through no real fault of the bard’s. It was in his nature, Geralt had realized, to fill silence with mirth. It didn’t occur to him to let the air be still unless with a specific purpose. An extended rest between notes to build tension, or, as Geralt had been treated to as of late, the weaponized silent treatment.

The Witcher was still getting used to it, and besides that would always value silence far more than Jaskier. So there would always be moments in which the sound became too much, and despite himself Geralt would snap at the bard to just give him some fucking peace, though without any real bite. To which Jaskier’s typical reply was an equally unvicious, “Fuck off, Witcher.” Then he would stop playing until he could no longer stand the quiet. 

They spent days weaving through the trees and along the riverbed, taking advantage of the shady respite provided by the canopy of branches far above them. Though the air was still cool and the wind blew a chill, the sun was hot and beat down relentlessly when she peered out from behind the clouds. Geralt’s slow heartbeat meant he ran cold, and so took to the sunlight like a cat. Jaskier on the other hand, was liable to complain about things like sweat and freckling, and so preferred on the whole to stay within the shade. 

That is not to say that the bard didn’t take great joy in, on occasion, finding a sunny spot on a wide, flat rock and laying down a while. The sun was for _relaxing,_ see Witcher? Not for working or travelling. Come join me a while, let Roach take a rest. 

It was picturesque, in a way that Jaskier fit into seamlessly. When Geralt looked at him amongst the greenery, against the lazy river, cast in the filtered twilight, it was like looking at a painting. He slotted as naturally into the landscape as the birds into his song. 

This one peaceful stretch of his life, Geralt knew he’d remember until the end of his days. He could feel it, the curve of Jaskier’s smile and the smell of the breeze fixing themselves permanent spots in his mind. He welcomed them. He wished he could prolong it, entrench himself in an eternal spring here in the valley. 

Jaskier, it seemed, felt similarly. 

One morning, shortly after they’d both risen, Jaskier stretched, twisting at the waist and reaching his arms to the sky with a groan, then smiling. He still wasn’t sleeping any better. The bard still thrashed in the night, waking Geralt with his cries of distress. Despite that, he seemed in better cheer in the mornings, so either he was growing accustomed to the lack of rest, or was getting better at hiding the exhaustion. 

“I think I’d like to do this forever,” Jaskier said, and the sincerity of the simple phrase set Geralt’s chest smouldering.

“Hmm.”

“I must admit, sleeping on the ground has begun to lose its charm, if it ever had any, but regardless. This is a beautiful life, Witcher. I’m grateful to share it.”

“You’re sappy this morning,” Geralt commented.

“I’m not _sappy_ ,” Jaskier protested, “I’m a poet,” and he cut Geralt off as the Witcher opened his mouth to speak, “There _is_ a difference, actually, shut up.”

Geralt closed his mouth and with a tilt of his head, let half a smile tug at the corner of his lip. 

“The open path before us, wind at our backs and sun on our faces - truly, _this_ , is how man is meant to live,” Jaskier went on. 

“That’s bullshit, Jaskier,” Geralt said, and the bard sputtered.

“Whatever do you mean?” he asked, looking quite offended.

“You miss your fine silks and warm beds,” Geralt said, “You miss performing to adoring courts and having your pick of women. Am I right?”

Jaskier made a face, “Alright, fine. But I can like more than one thing. Just because I miss my nice clothes and bath oils doesn’t mean I can’t see the value in this.”

Geralt shook his head, lip still quirked in a half smile, “The romance fades very quickly, I assure you. You’ve only been doing this a couple weeks - I’ve been doing it far longer than I care to admit.”

“Then let me enjoy it while I can,” Jaskier sat down next to Geralt, who was prodding around in the ashes the previous night’s fire, making sure it was completely out before they moved on.

“By all means,” the Witcher said. 

“Besides,” Jaskier stared ahead, not at the ash, but the river, “Even when I’ve grown tired of how my back hurts, when the night’s chill makes my bones ache, and I stink so badly of river water and mud that I fear I’ll never come clean again, the sun will still be warm, and the birdsong sweet. Even the grouchy company has its charm,” he finished with an elbow that Geralt shortly returned.

Geralt found the optimism endearing. 

“I have been meaning to ask,” the bard went on, “Have you got any destination in mind? Or are we truly just wandering?”

Geralt took a second before answering. There was a city at the mouth of the Pontar, where it met up with the sea, that he sort of thought Jaskier would like. Lots of people and merrymaking, as well as trinkets and tools made nowhere else on the continent. He’d been leading them there, hoping that by the time they arrived he’d be ready for it. From there they’d bounce around the coastal villages, where there was never any shortage of work to be found. If not slaying water-dwelling creatures, then acting as insurance aboard the odd naval journey. Then, perhaps inland for a while - possibly even so far as to see the edge of the world, a place far more wild than any other on the Continent, and again, never lacking in work to be done. 

If they walked straight along the river and kept a good pace, they’d be less than fortnight to the coast, but, “I thought we might take the long way through the valley,” Geralt said, “There are a few trading towns if we head north a little ways, we could stop into them, see about some work and a hot meal.” It would stretch the journey significantly, winding their way through the small towns of the valley and taking work along the way. Summer would be well on its approach by the time they arrived at their first destination. 

“Trading towns?” Jaskier asked, one eyebrow raised carefully. 

“Hmm,” Geralt nodded, “Small settlements, along the trade routes. Merchants stop a few days at a time to rest and sell wares before moving along.” 

Jaskier’s expression hadn’t changed, so Geralt continued, “People come and go constantly. You never see the same folks twice.”

The bard nodded then, and Geralt knew he’d understood. This was not a grand gesture of trust, but a move he’d judged to be safe. 

Jaskier continued to nod, “I could find work as well,” he added, “And test out a song I’ve been working through, get some feedback.”

“You’ve been composing?”

“Of course. I gave you my word, Witcher. I’ll change the public’s tune about you.”

“I wouldn’t have thought you’d have found any inspiration yet. A pack of drowners and a few devourers - hardly impressive,” Geralt said. 

“Well,” Jaskier said, “You’d better go kill something exciting then. I’ve got a song to finish.” He put a hand on Geralt’s shoulder and used it to push himself up to standing. He then reached down and grasped the Witcher’s hand, tugging him up with a grunt that betrayed the effort of it. 

Geralt found that letting go of the bard’s hand was difficult. But to keep hold of it was not an option so he settled himself by lightly shoving Jaskier. Jaskier laughed, and shoved back with a, “Come on, Witcher.” 

The Witcher gave a half smile, and then set to packing the saddlebags. 

Something that Geralt had noticed over the last weeks was that Jaskier was extremely tactile. He’d leave his hand on Geralt’s shoulder, touch the small of his back as he walked past, pick stray twigs out of his hair. 

The Witcher didn’t know quite what to make of that, except that he thought it must be rubbing off on him. No longer did he shy away from the touches, but leaned into them, waited for them. And clearly Geralt had been made wrong, because Witchers were not made for wanting, yet that was all he seemed to do these days. 

He wanted friendship, casual touch, and kind words. He ached for them, longed desperately and felt like a starved wild animal. White Wolf indeed, he was just as hungry. It was as though Jaskier had broken down and destroyed some dam within him, some barrier he hadn’t even known he’d put up to hold back that wanting. Now it all rushed forth, consuming him. 

Geralt was almost angry at the bard for it. Before Jaskier, as far as he could remember, he’d been more or less content - resigned at the very least. He was a solitary creature, as Witchers were, and had made peace with that. His life was predictable, difficult, yes, but he always knew what to expect. That was no more. He felt on edge, unsure of himself in the face of Jaskier’s nearly unyielding confidence and pride. 

What's more, he wondered what it would be like after Jaskier. When the debt was fulfilled and they said goodbye, Jaskier off to whatever fae court suited him, to make his triumphant return. 

And Geralt… it’d be back to business as usual, he supposed. But to live without kindness was one thing. To have it, and for it to be taken away? 

“Witcher, you look positively foul,” Jaskier broke his train of thought. 

Geralt shook his head, but did make an effort to smooth the scowl he hadn’t even noticed slink across his face. 

“I know you do love a good brood, but please, if anything’s wrong-”

“Nothing,” Geralt shook his head, “Nothing at all.”

“Right,” Jaskier said, “Good, so, I’m not going to push, but I do need you to know that I know you’re full of shit, alright? It’s important to me that you know that.”

Geralt inclined his head as if to say, alright, fair enough. 

Jaskier shook his head, and looked at the Witcher so intently that he suddenly became self-conscious. It felt as though he’d be able to divine Geralt’s every thought and wish through force of gaze alone. 

He turned, fastened the buckle on the leather saddlebag, and mounted Roach in a swift motion. 

They were off then, leaving the Pontar behind and heading deeper into Redania. As they trekked towards roughly where Geralt knew the nearest of the trading towns to be, Jaskier seemed to grow more excited by the prospect of civilization. 

“Gods, Witcher. I hope the food is good, I might do something I’ll regret otherwise - That was a joke! Don’t look at me like that - Fifty years since I last had a decent meal, I’m already salivating at the thought. I want something hot, and far too rich, and something sweet. And _wine_ ,” he moaned obscenely, “I’d love something dry, tart, and contrary. Oh, and a bed to curl up in afterwards, next to a roaring fire with fresh linens and the window propped open just a bit, oh Witcher, this is going to be _wonderful_.”

Geralt thought that Jaskier was probably being a touch optimistic. 

“It’s a small trading town, Jaskier,” Geralt said, “There’ll be hot food, liquor, and a bed. I wouldn’t trouble myself fantasizing about specifics.”

“Spoilsport,” Jaskier said, “A man can dream. But you’re right, and I suppose I’ll just have to make do, take what I can get. What I’m most looking forward to is a hot bath anyway.”

Geralt was obliged to agree, nodding and humming softly. A soak in the hot water, a little privacy and time to himself was just what he needed. 

Jaskier stuck a pinky in his left ear, “I still haven’t got all the dirt off,” he said cheerfully, “Or maybe this is new dirt. So difficult to tell these days.”

“New dirt,” Geralt guessed, “You slipped yesterday, trying to see the minnows in the river. That’s the side of your face you landed on.”

“You saw that? You bastard,” the bard looked offended, “And I didn’t _slip_ , I am a being of perfect grace and balance.”

Geralt snorted, because maybe once it had been true. But while Jaskier’s graceful, theatrical movements were lovely to behold, his balance was certainly not perfect. He faltered, lost his footing - and - did in fact slip. Rarely, granted, but it happened. 

“You just decided that the mud was too lovely to deny, then?” the Witcher teased.

“I- It- The wind!” Jaskier declared, ears and cheeks burning red, “The wind, it blew… strangely. It-”

“The wind?” 

“Let’s have a change of subject, shall we?”

“As you wish,” Geralt said. And he was content to sit in his saddle and listen as Jaskier talked. The bard wondered aloud about this and that, what sort of fare they’d find in the village, what sort of beasts he hoped they’d encounter - because there were some he was confident would make an excellent ballad, others much less so.

The half day’s journey to the town passed quickly that way, Jaskier making conversation mostly with himself, though not without occasional input from Geralt. Their destination made itself known, very conveniently, about the same time they would have stopped to rest anyway. 

The town was semi-sheltered by a low rocky outcrop, secluded away by that and the forest that bordered it. It was small, as Geralt had said it would be, though far emptier than it should have been. There was a smell in the air that the Witcher recognized instantly. It was matched by an energy that Jaskier seemed to pick up on almost as quickly, his brow furrowed as his question about Witcher signs trailed off.

It was fear, potent and foul. Only a handful of people walked the streets, and they rushed about, eager to get back indoors. Windows were shuttered, and stillness hung tangible in the air. Bits of parchment were posted outside businesses, advertising an enforced curfew.

“Witcher, what happened here?” Jaskier wondered.

“Nothing good,” Geralt replied, “Though I think you’ll soon have your wish granted.”

“What wish?”

“I think I’ll soon be killing something much more exciting than a drowner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier freckles in the sun pass it on


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Realizing.

“No, Jask- no! What was that? Do it again, show me. No- hey! Get up! Try again, ok? It’s not difficult, stab, half pirouette, parry, slash, pivot, and thrust. Jaskier! Please, focus - leave that, alright? It’s just a frog, you’ve seen a million in the valley, never mind the rest of your life. That’s still wrong, do it again.  _ No _ , I don’t know how else to explain it -  _ half _ pirouette, you don’t need to - Why? Because it’s a waste of energy and it leaves you open. Jas- Stop. Stop spinning. Take this seriously please, for fuck’s sake,  _ please _ . I- Jaskier, really? Grow up.”

Geralt put one hand to his forehead as the bard’s movements strayed even further from the tight, controlled choreography he’d shown him. The Witcher, not known for his legendary patience under the best of circumstances, had rather quickly devolved from careful, if short, instruction to barked orders and reprimands. Neither approach had been successful, and Jaskier spun around, improvised, got distracted, and did everything he could to evoke the image of an overgrown child grown bored with his lessons. 

In the beginning, Jaskier had at least tried. He’d taken the pretty dagger from its resting place in the hilt against his hip, stopping for only a moment to admire the rainbows thrown by the jewelled finial in the bright afternoon sun. He assumed a stance that was close enough to correct, and Geralt had him perform a few rudimentary moves to judge his level of competency. Overall, the bard was better with the knife than Geralt had assumed he would be, but nowhere near skilled enough for what they’d soon be up against. Jaskier’s movements were performative, big and dramatic, as always. He held his arms too wide, did nothing to guard his core or his face, and overexerted himself so much that he’d broken into a sweat after only a few minutes. 

If he’d only ever needed to defend himself against an unruly or vindictive courtesan or noble, Geralt would have congratulated him on his skill and taken him for a drink - lesson over. 

But a basilisk was far more trouble to deal with than a jilted lord or lady. 

Geralt had fought basilisks before, but if his heart were capable of racing, it would have readily done so at the thought of doing so again. All the years he’d lived, all the monsters he’d fought, and it never got easier. Each time he walked into a cave, sword clutched at his side, he knew he might not come back out. He lived his life in such a way that any breath could be his last. It was the way he’d been made, the reason for it. Geralt led an ugly life so that others would not have to. 

That didn’t blind him to the ugliness of it. 

And basilisks were especially nasty. The beasts reeked of acid and bile, deadly venom dripping from razor sharp claws and teeth. Their massive reptilian bodies were unwieldy and unpredictable - Geralt’s blade had difficulty finding any place to call home among the thick scales, and they protected their vulnerable underbellies fiercely. Fire did well, but in close quarters such measures were inadvisable. 

This particular basilisk had been injured by a foolhardy knight, who, before perishing in what Geralt imagined was a great deal of pain, had managed to get a good swipe in on the underside of the creature’s throat. It was reluctant to leave its cave these days, but the basilisk’s horrible screeches and howls continued to terrorize the town. 

The cowering mayor had told them the whole story in great detail that morning, which Jaskier was captivated by, and Geralt found incredibly tiresome. The thin, prematurely balding man had nearly fallen at Geralt’s feet when he’d caught sight of the silver Witcher’s medallion, pleading and begging - please, he’d said, you have to help us. 

The basilisk had taken residence in one of the larger caves that dotted the rocky outcrop at the edge of the town somewhere about eight months ago, and the town had fallen to shambles shortly thereafter. Most people left, only the stubborn and stupid sticking around. The mayor, being obligated to stay by his station, lived in constant fear and barely left his house. 

After the knight’s attempt at the beast, there was a short-lived peace, shattered only a fortnight later when it was either recovered enough - or hungry enough - to leave it’s cave once more. It made only rare, short journeys, snatching up anyone who dared to stray a little too far from town. 

The mayor offered Geralt, and by extension Jaskier, free lodging, and a reward - which was entirely too little for such a task - to finally dispatch the beast, and free the town from the fear that gripped them unrelentingly. Geralt knew that the enthusiasm and borderline kindness with which the mayor treated him would die with the basilisk, and that he’d be lucky if he was able to collect the scant payment without having to resort to intimidation. He said yes without hesitation.

Jaskier immediately started workshopping rhymes for “basilisk.” The Witcher had tried to insist to the bard that he should stay in town, that this was too dangerous. Jaskier was an idiot for even considering it, he’d growled. His plea fell on deaf ears, naturally. Jaskier would not be subverted. Something this big, he’d said, this  _ exciting,  _ he had to see. It was perfect inspiration. The fervent, unsettling light in his eyes, and slightly too-wide stretch of his grin left no room for further discussion. 

So it would be a long, arduous, fight, made all the worse by the fact that he’d spend half of it glancing over his shoulder to see that Jaskier was out of the way and safe, and standing back far enough to remain that way. 

Besides that, the Witcher was led to the conclusion that in the event that things went…  _ poorly, _ the bard ought to know how to defend himself, hold the thing off until Geralt got back on his feet. 

Jaskier insisted he’d manage, that he was more than capable and the Witcher was being ridiculous. But when Geralt told him to demonstrate - he found himself uneasy. 

So that was how they’d come to be in the small back yard of the tavern the mayor was putting them up in. It was a flat, rectangular patch of earth, with a raised garden bed that grew cabbages and potatoes, which as the owner had boasted were of the finest quality. Fragrant herbs grew in the window boxes, and fuzzy little honeybees danced among them, buzzing pleasantly. The rest of the yard was occupied largely by rocks and weeds, though there was a spot in the middle that had been worn to flat, hard packed earth by years of children’s play. 

That was where Jaskier stood, now spinning the dagger around his hand. He hooked his pinky finger on the beak of the silver bird skull and whirled it, using the momentum to curve the handle gracefully over the back of his hand. Geralt crossed his arms over his chest.

Things were not going well. 

“Stop that,” the Witcher growled, “It’s not a toy, you’ll hurt yourself.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jaskier assured him, flipping the blade again, “I told you, I’m good with a dagger, and regardless, I have no intention of fighting a basilisk. I find I’m quite content to let you handle it.”

“Humour me,” the Witcher requested, scowling. 

“I don’t know what you want from me, Witcher,” Jaskier stepped out of his stance, catching the blade easily and letting his arms fall by his sides. 

“I want you to show me the move again,” Geralt said, fighting to keep the frustration out of his voice. 

“But why?” the bard looked equally upset, “I’ve told you, I’m not going to fight the thing. I’ll stay back as far as you tell me, so why?”

“Best laid plans, bard,” Geralt snapped, “Do it. Again.”

“Like this tiny fucking knife is going to make a difference anyway!” Jaskier let it fall to the ground, and threw his hands in the air, “If you please, Witcher, let’s be realistic. If the basilisk decides to kill me, there’ll be very little I can do with a  _ dagger _ to change its mind.”

“Well, what do you propose, then?” Geralt put his hands on his hips. 

“I’ll bring my lute,” Jaskier said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Geralt shook his head, “Magic fails. A lute can be destroyed, your throat cut or crushed,” he almost winced, the image of Jaskier, bloody and broken, croaking weakly on the ground flashed through his mind, “Blade is more reliable.”

“And I can use a blade reliably, just not to your impossible Witcher standards,” the bard pouted, “I don’t see why you want me to learn all these ridiculous steps, it’s not as if the beast is going to pull a blade of his own and duel me like a gentleman,” he snorted at the thought. 

“Pick up the dagger, and do it again,” Geralt insisted. It wasn’t about dueling or etiquette, it was about muscle memory and good habits, learning to guard yourself and move efficiently. 

Jaskier made a face, but obliged. It still wasn’t right, and what little remained of Geralt’s patience snapped. 

“Fuck, come here,” the Witcher growled, striding towards the bard. Jaskier’s face flushed red for a split second - he must have been just as frustrated as Geralt - but he hesitantly moved in. 

The Witcher grabbed his wrist, perhaps more roughly than he ought to have done. He pulled their bodies together, aligning Jaskier’s stance to match his own, near perfect form. Geralt put one hand over the bard’s, guiding the knife to the proper angle, and the other to his ribs to fix the incorrect posture. 

Jaskier inhaled sharply at the touch, the closeness. Geralt didn’t blame him, anyone would be nervous, so near and vulnerable against a Witcher. The bard’s back was pressed into his chest, and Geralt could feel every beat of his heart, every shuddering inhale. He could smell the green, fresh scent of him - mixed with something warm that made his head swim. 

“There,” Geralt said, his voice low and rough. The warmth flared. 

“And then like this?” Jaskier’s voice was breathy and nearly as low as Geralt’s. They moved together, the Witcher guiding the bard through the movement, slow and deliberate. Stab, half pirouette, slash, pivot, and thrust. 

Geralt nodded, and the side of his face brushed softly against Jaskier’s hair. He did not let go of the bard, and the bard did not seek to free himself. Geralt wondered why Jaskier did not move. Perhaps he was afraid. But the Witcher could not smell any fear on him at all. 

They stood, frozen in the moment like insects encased in amber. The only movement in the little yard was the medallion that hummed like an angry hornet between them. 

“It really never stops?” Jaskier asked.

Geralt shook his head.

“If there was a way to… If I could-”

“I know.”

“It must be terribly inconvenient,” Jaskier said. 

Geralt nodded. 

Jaskier lifted his non-dagger hand, pulling it close to his chest. There was a ring, a simple gold braided band, that glinted on his middle finger. The bard looked at it, shifted his hand. Geralt had the feeling that he would speak again, but he remained silent. 

They were quiet, still, and Geralt felt lost in realizing. He took great care then not to move, to be still as a statue. Because if he moved, the spell would break. If he moved, he worried that they would break apart.

The late afternoon sun made their shadows long in front of them. The silhouette of their bodies pressed together made a peculiar, monstrous shape. Two heads, too many arms. But then Geralt tilted his head slightly, and his perception shifted. They suddenly seemed to cast the shadow of a lover’s embrace. 

Realization took the Witcher once more, as, with the bard pressed into his chest, he felt possessiveness strike through him like lightning. That enticing, sickly heat curled into something sharp and needy around the base of his spine. Something familiar, something animal. 

Geralt wanted to fuck the the bard. 

“Again?” 

Geralt nodded, and they moved slowly together again, and again, and neither made any move to separate. 

They’d done it almost ten times when Geralt finally said, “You should try it on your own now,” in that same low, rough tone. The warmth flared through both of them again. Jaskier nodded, he stepped away from Geralt, and the Witcher found himself almost unbearably cold. A shiver rocked through him, which he tried very hard to stifle, but from the quizzical, half-lidded look the bard gave him, he was unsuccessful. 

Geralt crossed his arms over himself, attempting to regain some of that heat. Jaskier did not move, only stood there looking at him with something in his eyes that the Witcher could not place. His lips were slightly parted, his head tilted at a bare angle. Jaskier must’ve thought him a brute, pushing him around and dragging him far too close like that. 

Geralt cleared his throat, “Let’s see it, then.”

Jaskier performed the move, not perfectly, but undeniably better. Geralt nodded. 

“Good.” 

A tension hung in the air, feeling completely different from the ugly coldness that had stretched between them when they’d been angry with each other. This tension was hot, disarming, and made Geralt feel a bit sick. It was like a too-hot bath he’d sat in for too long, his insides starting to cook and boil. 

Yet he did not think it uncomfortable. It was like the forest again - Geralt knew he’d have been perfectly content to stand there forever, stretching the moment into eternity, Jaskier looking at him through too-long eyelashes with his too-blue eyes set like gems into his statuesque face. 

Geralt turned away. He wanted to fuck the bard. But he would not. He could not. Jaskier was, for the most part, fairly reasonable. Therefore, it stood as a sound assumption that he would not want the Witcher. A pass made would be met by disgust, revulsion. Then that horrible, cold silence would return, and Geralt would lose his friend. He’d lose the kindness and gentle touches, the pleasant - if at times overbearing - companionship. It was out of the question. It wasn’t worth it. 

Besides all that, the attraction only went as deep as lust, which although terribly distracting, was mercifully far more easily overcome than if he’d been in love with the bard. Lust was dealt with swiftly in stolen, private moments, Geralt doing his best to keep his head empty of thoughts, so as to discourage any untoward fantasizing in the light of day. 

And Geralt was a Witcher, by the Gods. He could control himself. His nature balanced on the precipice between raw instinct and perfect discipline, and he would not give himself over to the former. 

Jaskier would be gone soon enough. He’d fulfilled one life debt more quickly than Geralt had expected of him, the second was sure to follow in not much time. 

The bard would be gone, and Geralt would be alone again. The Witcher would not waste what little time they’d have on hurt feelings and awkwardness. He wasn’t going to ruin this. 

Geralt turned away. 

“Keep practicing,” he said, “I’ll be back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: wow Jaskier's all red and he smells different and he keeps looking at me weird, he must be so uncomfortable and nervous around me :( I'm a monster :((((((  
> Jaskier: PLEASE just fuck me please I am BEGGING you
> 
> [I made a pinterest board :)](https://www.pinterest.ca/camillemutch/like-real-people-do/)
> 
> As always thank you for reading and I love you all so much.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for a brief instance of period typical misogyny between background characters - nothing involving either Geralt or Jaskier

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted at the barman, tilting his earthenware mug briefly before sliding it across the worn wood bar. The surface had been polished nearly to a gleam by decades of use, and it reflected the warm glow of the candlelight in the little tavern. 

The barman nodded and refilled the mug, sliding it back into Geralt’s waiting palm. The Witcher downed half of it in one gulp, as he’d done with the previous several drinks. Despite the quantity of ale he’d consumed, he wasn’t nearly drunk enough for his liking. There were still far too many thoughts, too many impulses that wouldn’t leave him be. He wanted to drink enough to forget, at least for a little while. 

At the end of the bar, Geralt could see a mousy-haired youth - near manhood but lacking all the benefits it brought. He was gangly, with sparse facial hair, and a not insignificant portion of the remaining real estate on his face taken up by angry red pimples. His elbows and knees jutted out at strange angles, and he talked loudly, misting the air in front of him with every lisped word. Geralt could not help but feel something like pity for the girl he had his arm slung around. She was probably the same age as him, or only barely older, but without looking at her round babyface he wouldn’t have known it. The girl was full-figured, and Geralt felt certain that if the couple had stood side by side - she’d have towered over him. She leaned against the bar, resting her chin in her hand and idly nodding at whatever the boy said. 

Geralt watched the couple out of the corner of his eye, and knew the boy was watching him just as closely. He had to be - he was matching the Witcher drink for drink. An attempt to impress the girl, no doubt. But the boy - lacking the metabolism and tolerance that came with age, size, and Witcher mutations - swayed atop his stool, clinging more and more steadfastly to the girl in order to maintain his dubious balance. His lisp grew more pronounced with every empty mug, and as the boy got drunker, Geralt could almost hear the girl’s teeth grinding together, her irritation palpable in the air. 

The boy was making a complete ass of himself. The Witcher smiled into his mug. 

The other patrons of the tavern were less interesting, but that did not stop Geralt from listening to their conversations. He felt no remorse, as none of them took particular care to keep their voices low, and after all, they were chiefly talking about him. While the words were mostly unpleasant, though no more than usual, they gave him something to consider besides the relentless thoughts bouncing around his own head.

One woman, her voice coming from behind him - near where he knew the door to be, whispered to her companion.

“Awful young to have gone gray, isn’t he? What d’you reckon happened to him?”

The other woman tutted, and replied in an equally hushed tone, “Rena, you bloody idiot. Don’t you pay any attention at all? He’s a  _ Witcher.  _ That’s what’s done his hair in. Didn’t you see his  _ eyes?” _

“No,” the first woman, Rena, admitted, her voice halfway a giggle, “Plenty about him other than his eyes worth looking at, I was a bit preoccupied.”

“You minx,” the second woman teased, “Look all you want, but don’t get any ideas. Awful brutes, Witchers are, you want to keep well clear of him.”

“Speak for yourself, Margit,” and the two dissolved into fits of stifled laughter. 

Geralt shifted uncomfortably. 

There was a man, who, by the look of his ruddy cheeks, had had more than enough to drink that night. He was fair-skinned and red haired, and his puffed-up posture did nothing to de-emphasize his wiry build. The Witcher could feel his sunken eyes boring into him, pure hatred like a red-hot branding iron. He sat in the far corner, within Geralt’s eyeline, completely still and silent, save for an occasional undignified hiccup. His companion, a girl of perhaps thirteen, followed the man’s gaze, and began to rattle off questions. 

“Why’ve they let him in, father? He’s a Witcher, isn’t he? I thought they were evil, so why doesn’t Mister Porchant throw him out? Will you challenge him, father? You could best him, certainly. Mother says-”

The wiry man cut his daughter off sharply with a raised hand. 

“You don’t shut that good-for-nothing mouth of yours,  _ girl, _ and you’ll be back with your batshit old wench of a mother before you can blink twice,” he hissed, his words slurring together, “And keep your  _ fucking _ voice down, got it? He hears you spouting off and a little backhand’ll be the least of your problems. Witchers  _ eat _ bratty little girls, don’t you know?”

Geralt didn’t miss the way the girl flinched away from her father. The Witcher scowled into his mug. From his experience, a man’s treatment of women and children revealed a great deal about his character. 

Geralt felt quite eager to get on with the basilisk killing and move on from this little backwater shithole. To even call it a town felt generous, sparsely populated and lacking in resource as it was. There was no apothecary, no blacksmith, and he’d had to pay entirely too much for use of a resident’s private stable. The story would be much the same for most of the towns dotted throughout the valley. 

What a wonderful idea he’d had. Take the long way through the valley, have hot food and a bed and work to do. Geralt scoffed. They’d have been better off staying out in the woods. The stupid bard had made him almost forget how much he fucking hated being around other people. 

The Witcher stopped himself. The stupid bard was not a train of thought he particularly wanted board just then, so he tipped his mug back, draining it once more. 

Clearly, fate would not allow him even the drowning of his sorrows though, because the tavern door creaked open, and a familiar voice rang out, bringing much of the conversation in the tavern to a halt. 

“You’re an asshole, Witcher,” Jaskier's voice, as much amusement as irritation saturating it, came from a few feet behind him. Geralt didn’t turn, but instead hummed his agreement. He felt the bard’s hand come down on his shoulder, and stay there. Jaskier leaned against the bar and shook his head. 

“Been practicing?” Geralt asked gruffly, and he was certainly not hiding behind his mug. 

Jaskier let his hand slide from the Witcher’s shoulder, and slid up on the stool next to him. He raised a finger to get the barman’s attention. Conversation resumed all around them, as the patrons seemed to realize that there would not be a fight between the Witcher and the bard.

“Yes,” he said, “I practiced diligently until I could no longer see my hand in front of my face. Or had you not noticed that  _ night had fallen?” _

“Hmm.”

“You said you’d come back.”

“I say a lot of things.”

“Well, if that isn’t the biggest load of horseshit I’ve ever heard,” Jaskier snorted, then turned to the waiting barman.

“Whatever your best vintage is, if you please,” he requested. The barman gave a sharp laugh, and filled a chipped goblet not from a bottle, but from a cask that was by itself on a shelf above the barrels of ale. He presented it with a flourish, placing it in front of Jaskier and giving a mock bow.

“I do hope you enjoy, noble sir,” he grinned, “Our best vintage.”

If the barman had slapped Jaskier, he would have looked less offended.

The bard took a tentative sip, and made a sour face. 

“I hate this place, Witcher.”

Geralt agreed, and very nearly laughed. He shook his head, “I told you not to get your hopes up.”

“Yes, I suppose you did tell me that. And speaking of things you told me -”

Geralt grimaced, and once more did not hide behind his mug.

“Have you truly got nothing to say for yourself?” Jaskier was shaking his head again, and wagged a finger in Geralt’s face, “Terribly rude, Witcher, really, I’m hurt.”

“You’ll recover.”

“ _ I’m _ supposed to be the vicious, remorseless monster, here, Witcher. Do try to respect that,” the bard sniffed, and brought his goblet back to his lips - an action he almost immediately regretted. 

“You’re being dramatic, Jaskier,” Geralt said, though he did feel the stirring of something like guilt in his stomach. In truth, he hadn’t noticed how late it’d gotten. He’d been rather busy eavesdropping, doing his best to talk himself out going back outside and planting himself firmly on his knees before the bard, in full view of the kitchen windows, and watching the boy at the end of the bar make a fool of himself. Important things. Not that that was an excuse he could offer to Jaskier. 

“No shit,” Jaskier said. He leaned forward onto his elbows, glancing around with eyes that seemed to dance about the room. He landed eventually on the wiry man and his daughter. 

“He looks about as friendly as you do, Witcher. Has he been staring like that all night?” he wondered, careful to keep his voice lowered. 

“Hmm.” 

The wiry man’s glower had darkened, a feat that Geralt - as something of an expert in the sport of dirty looks - found himself truly impressed by. 

“You don’t think he’ll give us any trouble, do you?”

“When it starts,” Geralt said, “Don’t get involved.”

Jaskier didn’t reply, but requested something stronger than the unimpressive wine from the barman. The barman, between casting nervous glances between the Witcher and the wiry man, slid him a nearly empty bottle of deep amber liquid. The bard poured most of it into the fresh earthenware glass he’d also been offered, and threw it back without hesitation. 

The man turned his head to his daughter, and whispered something. The girl nodded, and went swiftly to the staircase that led up to the rooms. 

“The fuck are you looking at, mutant?” 

The little tavern fell silent with anticipation as the man’s voice rang out. The only one who did not seem to take notice of tense energy in the room was the pimply youth at the end of the bar. Though given how drunk he was by this point, Geralt thought the boy was lucky to be aware of the stool beneath his ass, let alone an impending bar fight. 

Geralt said nothing, and the man stood. He walked slowly, but with purpose to the bar. 

“Asked you a question, mutant.”

“Fuck off.”

The man laughed an ugly laugh. 

“We don’t like your kind here,” he sneered, “Mayor’s kissin’ your boots because you say you can kill the basilisk, so poor old Porchant can’t put you out on your arse where you belong. Doesn’t mean I can’t give you a proper welcome to town, though.” A blade, which Geralt hadn’t seen before, flashed in his hand.

“Leave it, Rickson,” the barman, Porchant, said, a warning in his voice. Jaskier’s breath hitched almost imperceptibly at the name. Names made him powerful.

“Mind your business,” Rickson slurred.

“You’re an idiot,” Geralt said.

“You think I’m afraid of you?” another ugly laugh burst from the man’s throat as he stepped forward, raising the dagger. 

Jaskier put the bottle to his lips and drained the remaining amber liquid. The glass came down on the bar top with a heavy  _ thud _ , so hard that the Witcher had expected it to shatter. 

The bard stood, and of course the son of a bitch couldn’t be counted on to follow a simple fucking instruction.  _ Stay out of it,  _ the one thing Geralt had asked. He pushed past the Witcher, paying no mind to Geralt's growled plea to just stop, and leave it alone.

As Jaskier approached Rickson, the wiry man, a terrible grin spread over his face. It was too wide, too much. Too many teeth bared at the man, who, despite his posturing, took a step back, holding out his knife. 

“I’m not afraid of either of you,” Rickson insisted, and in the next second his hand darted out. The knife sliced through the air, hurtling toward its destination - the second button of Jaskier’s tunic. 

Quick as Rickson was, even sober he’d have been no match for a Witcher’s reflexes. Geralt caught his wrist easily, and with just the right pressure applied, the knife clattered to the floor. The wiry man howled in pain, face going beet red.

“That’s two again,” the Witcher said. 

Jaskier laughed, and then the fight had begun. 

The wiry man shouted, and landed a punch to Geralt’s jaw with his good hand. He yanked the other free of the Witcher’s grip and scooped the dagger up from the floor. 

Geralt was on his feet then, putting himself between Jaskier and Rickson. With his left hand, he grabbed the wiry man roughly by the back of his hair.

“You really want to do this?” the Witcher growled.

The wiry man, in lieu of a reply, thrust the dagger into Geralt’s side. Geralt groaned, and the noise Jaskier made was far less human. 

The bard’s face flared red as he grabbed his empty bottle by the neck and swung it hard against the bar. It shattered loudly, the sound of it ringing in Geralt’s ears. Rickson grinned, and twisted the knife. 

“Hmm,” the Witcher threw his free fist into the man’s gut, and smiled hideously at the breathless wheeze that was produced. Jaskier was at his right side then, the broken remnants of the bottle shoved up under the wiry man’s chin. Beads of blood ran down the jagged edges of the clear glass.

“Rickson, was it?” the bard said the name like it was the vilest of curses, like it tasted foul in his mouth. Geralt could smell the slightly static, ozone scent of magic in the air.

“Fuck off, yeah?” Jaskier spat, and there was something in his words, that familiar reverberation, “You’re a hateful, arse-faced, prick-eared, witless moron, and you’re going to fuck off and pray that my Witcher friend doesn’t gut you like the slimy little fish you are.”

The words thundered around the room, feeling too big to be contained in the small space. The air felt oddly pressurized, as though lightning were about to strike. The violence and rage in Jaskier’s eyes were withering and left no room for retort. His hair seemed to float around him, just slightly, as though a breeze was blowing through, which contributed to the illusion of a storm brewing within the walls of the tavern. The wiry man’s furious face had fallen slack. He looked dazed and stunned, able only to stare dumbfounded at the bard with a sagging mouth and slightly crossed eyes. 

Jaskier opened his mouth to speak again, and the scent of magic, the staic, flared hot and sharp. The medallion protested violently, and Geralt knew that this time - it wouldn’t be a simple stun. The bard’s words echoed in his head.

_ “Have you ever seen a man keel over and die from nothing more than a particularly cutting insult? _

Geralt, still gripping the back of Rickson’s head, slammed the man’s face into the bar before Jaskier got another word out. 

The sickly crunch of a breaking nose followed, and then the wiry man slid unconscious to the floor. Finally, the knife was removed from the Witcher’s side.

Jaskier stepped back, and tossed the broken glass lightly to the floor. He looked to the Witcher, who had one hand clamped firmly over his bleeding abdomen. Adrenaline and magic lit the bard’s eyes, and they twinkled like stars. Panic was plain on his face. 

“I was going to -”

“I know.”

“Witcher, I -”

The bard clutched his stomach, and was violently sick all over the wiry man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier, upon being served the fantasy equivalent of boxed wine: I am going to kill myself
> 
> I spent a good ten minutes agonizing over whether or not I could use the phrase "train of thought" given that trains Do Not Exist before I realized that not a single person on the planet cares. Including myself. 
> 
> Thank you for reading. I treasure your comments, and though I find myself far too awkward to answer them, know that I do love them beyond measure.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains graphic depictions of violence.

“Help!” 

The door to the tavern burst open before Jaskier even had a chance to right himself. The cry had come from a woman in a plain olive green dress that was spattered in blood. The right side of her face bore an angry slash, the fair, pinkish flesh torn from her temple to her mouth. The skin around the wound was puffy and red, and it was oozing a milky, off-white substance that Geralt could smell even over the vomit and ale odours that permeated the tavern. It was an acidic, sickly smell that he recognized instantly. The woman had been attacked - escaping from the basilisk with her life. A life that would not last the night. There was little to be done about the venom, especially so close to her brain. 

“It’s coming,” the woman said, and collapsed to the floor. 

“Fuck,” Geralt said, because he hadn’t really wanted to fight the basilisk until the morning. He was tired, bleeding, and his bard was in shock with vomit on his chin. The circumstances were, to put it lightly, not ideal. Despite that, a sort of automatic response took him over, and he flicked into emergency mode. He was not Geralt anymore, he was the Witcher. 

“Make her comfortable, hold her down when the seizing starts,” he barked to Porchant, whose eyes were fixed on the unconscious, dying woman slumped on the floor of his tavern. The barest nod of confirmation was all Geralt needed, and he turned to Jaskier.

“Are you coming?” he demanded. 

Jaskier nodded, and muttered, “My lute.”

Geralt shook his head, “Jaskier-” but the bard was already halfway up the stairs. 

“Fuck,” the Witcher said again. He turned back to Porchant.

“Keep everyone inside,” he said, “Nobody leaves until that thing is dead or I am.”

Another nod from the barman. 

Geralt surveyed the tavern, counting heads and matching faces to voices. Aside from Rickson’s daughter, all were accounted for save one. 

The girl at the end of the bar was alone. The pimply youth was gone. Geralt scowled, and reached for his swords, which had spent the evening leaned up against the bar, at his feet. 

The pimply youth was not the only thing missing. 

Where there ought to have sat two sheathed swords, one silver and one steel, there was only one. The silver sword’s sheath lay empty and limp on the tavern floor. 

The girl no longer looked irritated, but fluttered with nervous energy and cast furtive glances at the door, as if hoping the boy would come back through it. 

“Fuck,” the Witcher swore a third time, louder now. One woman was as good as dead, and a boy was about to get himself killed in some foolish effort to impress a girl - and had taken his silver fucking sword to do so. 

A shriek cut through the air then, a high, reedy noise that could not be mistaken for human. The basilisk was close, then. Much too close for Geralt’s comfort. 

The tavern, which had been frozen with shock until that point, whipped itself into a frenzy of action at the horrible sound. The two women by the door, Rena and Margit, had cleared off the long table in the middle of the room and were helping Porchant lift the unconscious woman onto it. Rena crooned, and smoothed back the blonde hair from the woman’s sweat and blood-slick forehead. Margit dabbed at the wound with her own handkerchief. She had the look of a woman who knew her way around an emergency - she worked mechanically, though Geralt knew her efforts were in vain. Her trembling lip betrayed no cry, her glassy eyes no tears. 

The other patrons were less composed. Several crowded around the dying woman, those with better instincts made their way behind the bar, staying low and out of the way. Some, least wise of all, went to the window.

Jaskier reappeared at his side, lute slung over his shoulder and a leather pouch in his hands. Geralt felt a warm flare of affection when he realized what it was. He hummed his thanks as he took it, and pulled two of his elixirs from it. He uncorked and swallowed each of them. 

Within seconds, the world sharpened. Geralt could see _everything,_ hear everything. His focus narrowed and honed in on the basilisk that he knew awaited him just outside the door. Hot rage flared in his belly, coupled with a lightness in his head that made him a little giddy. A terrible smile spread across his face. He thought Jaskier was saying something, but didn’t register the words - though every syllable rang in his head like a bell. His prey awaited him, nothing else mattered. 

Geralt took up the steel sword and in a few long strides, was at the door. The few people who had not yet congregated either behind the bar, at the window, or with the dying woman parted to give him a wide berth. The glaring looks of disgust they cast on him cut through his single-minded focus. Even then, as he went to slay their beast and protect them all, he was met with hatred, with revulsion. He was aware, somewhere in his mind, that Jaskier was following him, and was still speaking, though he didn’t think the bard was speaking to him. 

“Quiet,” he snarled, because the sound was beginning to grate on his already overloaded ears. Jaskier obliged without protest, and Geralt became aware that he must look and sound more like a monster than ever. He found that he didn’t care very much. There was work to be done. 

When he pushed through the door, the scene that greeted him was almost enough to make him laugh. 

Indeed the basilisk was close - it was only a short ways down from the tavern. It was a big, ugly thing, snarling and spitting mad. Its massive wings flapped, keeping it level with the roofline of nearby buildings and causing great gusts of wind to blow down the street. It shrieked with frustration, spitting and snapping its horrible jaws at the pimply youth who staggered around beneath it. 

Though the ale made the boy slow and clumsy, it also made him unpredictable and erratic. He stumbled about in random patterns, bobbing quite unintentionally in and out of the creature’s blind spots. He didn’t - or indeed couldn’t - remain still, and so the basilisk had to try to guess where best to aim its next attack. It hadn’t gotten lucky yet. 

The boy held Geralt’s silver sword in both hands, struggling to lift the tip of the blade off the ground, much less thrust it upwards into the creature’s gut. The heavy blade dragged him around, throwing off his already dubious balance. He was more likely, Geralt thought, to injure himself with the sword than anything else. This frustrated the Witcher a little, because the boy actually was in quite a good position to gut the thing, if only he’d been strong enough to capitalize on it. The whole business of it was comical, pure dumb luck. 

“Stay back,” Geralt growled in Jaskier’s direction, and didn’t wait for a reply before striding down the street to meet the beast. 

He looked the basilisk dead in the eye as he approached, his sword clutched tightly in his hand. That strange mixture of rage and euphoria that was brought on by the potions crescendoed, swelled, consumed him as he got within striking range of his prey. He could smell its sharp, reptilian stench, could taste its venom in the air. With a motion so oft-repeated it was instinct, Geralt invoked Igni, setting the basilisk’s right wing ablaze with a flick of his hand. 

The creature howled, and plummeted to the packed-dirt street. Geralt realized his mistake, and swore. The boy, still stumbling drunkenly beneath the thing’s belly, would be crushed on impact. 

The Witcher dashed forward, throwing himself toward the boy. The second he was close enough, he thrust his hand forward again, this time casting Quen. Gold light encircled them, and the downed basilisk glanced easily off the protective magical barrier. 

Geralt grabbed the boy by the scruff, and cast him roughly out of harm’s way. The boy skittered and floundered across the ground, and struggling to right himself, crawled away to hide in a nearby doorway. The silver sword lay discarded on the ground.

The basilisk howled again, a shrill screeching that hurt the Witcher’s ears and drove him to a near frenzy of rage. The beast rolled over onto its flaming wing, attempting to stifle the fire. 

Its tender underbelly was exposed, and Geralt smiled hideously. He pushed off his back foot and broke into a run, swinging his sword around and over his head, gripping it with both hands and narrowing his focus to that one sweet spot on the creature’s chest. 

He brought the blade down hard, but at the last second the basilisk shifted, and the cruel steel sank into the thing’s arm, rather than its heart. 

Geralt’s jaw clenched, and he grunted against the flaring pain in his side as he whirled out of the way of the basilisk’s claws, then pivoted out of the way of its head. The gnashing teeth and rancid breath ghosted past his face, entirely too close. The Witcher brought his sword around again, this time swinging up at the partially healed wound on its neck. His blade found its mark this time, reopening the gash and producing a choked cry from the basilisk. He pressed his advantage, throwing his weight into another attack on the creature’s neck. 

He made contact again, though only briefly as the basilisk swiped out with its wicked claws, raking open the skin of his chest and tossing him to the ground. It spit, and Geralt’s skin burned everywhere the acidic venom touched.

“Witcher!” Jaskier’s terrified voice came from behind him, and was much too close. Geralt heard the bard’s quick, light footsteps as he approached. There were hands on him, pulling him to his feet. The movement sent pain shooting through him like lightning, and he could feel the ugly sickness brought on by the venom leaching into every corner of his bloodstream. 

“Get back,” he snarled to Jaskier, whose hands did not leave him. And of course, of course the idiot bard couldn’t be counted on to follow instructions. 

“No way,” Jaskier replied, “I can help you, let me help you!” he insisted. 

“Get back,” Geralt repeated, hating the way desperation tainted his voice. 

“For fuck’s sake, Witcher,” Jaskier shouted, sounding just as desperate, “Let me do something good!”

Geralt replied by way of a growl, sensing that the bard’s mind was made up. There would be no way to warn him off, no way to keep him out of the fight short of knocking him out cold. 

The Witcher turned his attention back to the hissing basilisk, who was circling and spitting acid at their feet. He and the bard stood back to back, Geralt readying his sword, Jaskier strumming the first chords of a song on his lute. 

The sound was complex and intricate, discordant and driving. That familiar, magical static danced in the air. 

The basilisk cocked its head, as if confused. Then it screeched, the sound half a gurgle as the wounds on its throat threatened to drown it in its own blood. It lunged forward, but was staggering and unsteady. Whether from its injuries, or whatever magic Jaskier invoked, Geralt did not know. 

He didn’t care much, either. He took the opening, dashing forward and thrusting his blade under the basilisk’s wing, following with another swipe at its brutally wounded neck. 

At the same time as the strike, Jaskier hit a chord that Geralt could feel in his bones. The sound reverberated in the air, and the basilisk howled and cowered, retreating and pressing its face into the ground. It squirmed and writhed, and the bard maintained the foul chord, letting it grow and warp. The basilisk tried to cover its head, clawing at its own face and shrieking in pain. 

Geralt found himself distracted. He stared at Jaskier, his fingers flying nimbly over the frets and strings. The bard stood not in a battle stance, but relaxed - as casually as if he were playing for nothing more than his own entertainment. All that betrayed his wicked focus was his face. His eyes were alight with magic, his brow dark. 

The basilisk shook its head. It snarled, and impossibly quickly lunged at the offending bard. Geralt dove at him, and flashed Quen once more, but in vain. Jaskier, not noticing the gesture, pivoted on the ball of his foot. He spun away from both the claw barrelling toward his face and the protection Geralt offered. 

He spun directly into the thing’s waiting maw. 

There was a howl, so animal and desperate and saturated with pain that Geralt cringed, as the basilisk’s teeth closed around Jaskier’s shoulder. 

The steel sword clattered to the ground, as Geralt threw himself at the beast’s head. He punched it, climbed atop it, and used his feet and the strength in his legs to pry the jaw open. 

Jaskier fell to his knees, wailing and gasping. 

The basilisk bucked and jerked, attempting to throw Geralt off. The Witcher did not yield, clinging fast to the beast’s neck. He jammed his heels into the gash on its throat, relishing the pained cry that was his reward. 

It reared up then, standing tall on its back legs and shaking its head. Geralt’s grip failed, and with a shout he tumbled down the length of the basilisk’s body. He landed flat on his back, the dull impact knocking the breath out of him for long enough that the beast had time to whirl around, and press its claws onto his already ravaged chest. It leaned down, its hot, foul breath stinging in the Witcher’s keen nose.

Geralt gave a growl of pain, and tossed his head about. His sword, where the _fuck_ had his sword landed? 

The steel was too far to reach, but the silver - if he could just reach a little further…

Jaskier’s cry of pain was growing, sharpening. He raised his arms as if he were preparing to strike with a sword, though his hands were empty. 

The basilisk’s jaws widened. Geralt stared into its mouth, watching the venom gather and pool on its forked tongue. It dripped onto his face, stinging and burning. The blow was coming, cruel teeth would tear him to shreds while his sword lay only a little more than an arm’s length away. He squirmed, struggled, but the beast’s weight had him pinned. 

Geralt cast one last look at Jaskier, and then closed his eyes. 

The blow did not come. Teeth did not close around his skull, nor did claws rend the remaining flesh from his chest. 

Instead, there was a sharp slicing sound, a sick ripping sound, and Jaskier’s pained voice mingled with the basilisk’s own cries of agony. There was something wet on his face.

Geralt opened his eyes when the weight lifted from his chest. 

The basilisk staggered toward Jaskier, off balance and banking left. Its head was misshapen and dripping gore. The Witcher put his hand to his face. It came away black with the creature’s blood. The bard had blown half the thing’s head off. Back down to one, he thought faintly.

Geralt scrambled for the silver sword, his hand finding the familiar grip with ease. He rushed to his feet, hissing at the pain that now permeated every part of his body. It brought him down, he landed hard on one knee. 

The Witcher watched on in horror, trying to will his spent body back to action, as the basilisk readied itself to strike the bard down. 

“No!” he shouted, and in the same instant saw the silvery flash of metal in Jaskier’s hand. 

As the beast lunged, the bard’s hand shot out, and the pretty silver dagger sunk into the basilisk’s remaining eye. 

The howl that the beast let out cut through the air, and one last burst of adrenaline shot through Geralt. He grunted as he staggered to his feet, and strode forward with the silver sword clutched in his blood-slick hand. He swung with every bit of strength he could muster, and with one final howl, the beast’s body was relieved of its mangled head. 

The air was still, silent save for the laboured breathing of both Witcher and bard. 

Jaskier turned to Geralt, took one step, and then fell against the Witcher, unconscious. 

“No,” Geralt muttered, shaking his head, “Help,” the word fell weakly from his lips as the poison began to overpower both adrenaline and elixir. 

“Help,” he said again, as they fell together onto the ground. Dark spots swam in front of Geralt’s eyes. He searched for something - anything to focus on in order to keep his hold on consciousness. He held Jaskier against his ruined chest, feeling the steady thudding of their hearts in tandem. Geralt’s, naturally slow - the bard’s slowing. 

“Help,” a third and final plea as darkness clouded and eclipsed his sight. The last thing Geralt saw was the pimply-faced boy, running back towards the tavern. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god I hate writing fight scenes. 
> 
> Also I feel like I should give a disclaimer here, I've never played the games so I really have no idea how a fight with a basilisk would actually play out, this is just my best guess and interpretation based on what I found on the Witcher wiki. So apologies for any mistakes I might've made. 
> 
> Thank you, as always, for reading and commenting. And for validating my choice of phrase re: "train of thought" in the last chapter. I love you guys v v much.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Healing.

When Geralt woke, he was warm and comfortable. He felt crisp linen sheets beneath him, and the steady, soothing pressure of bandages around his chest. A quilt, worn soft with years of use was draped over him. He could smell fresh air and woodsmoke, and something herbal and medicinal. He heard a crackling fire, the chirping of spring peepers, and a woman’s soft voice, speaking gently to a child. Geralt licked his chapped lips, and he tasted something alcoholic and spicy. One of his elixirs, and very likely the reason he wasn’t dead. He wondered who had administered it. 

The Witcher opened his eyes finally, and found that he did not recognize his surroundings. He was not in the tavern, but he presumed someone’s home. Geralt inhaled sharply, and propped himself up on his elbow. He groaned, for as he moved a hot, rippling pain tore through his chest. He was alone in a little bedroom, Jaskier was nowhere to be seen.

Looking around the room, Geralt saw that all of his things had been moved from the tavern. Both of his swords, his armour, his bags, and all his supplies were stacked neatly on top of a chest of drawers opposite the bed. Something he did not recognize lay with them - a medium sized drawstring purse. 

Geralt stood, hissing as his body protested and nearly forced him back to the bed. He took slow, deliberate steps to the chest, and lifted the purse. 

His lips curled into a smile as it jingled. He’d been paid - and well, by the sound of it. 

The door opened then, and one of the women from the tavern - Margit - walked through. At the sight of him awake and standing, she went white as a sheet as though she’d seen a ghost, and nearly dropped the steaming bowl of broth in her hands. 

“Oh!” 

Geralt didn’t quite know what to do with himself. He didn’t have to wonder long though, because Margit quickly regained her composure. 

“You get back in that bloody bed this instant, Mister Witcher, sir,” her face was stern, and Geralt was so taken aback at being  _ scolded,  _ that he found himself obeying without question. He moved back across the room carefully, easing himself down onto the mattress. Margit placed the broth on the low table beside the bed, and busied herself arranging the pillows behind Geralt’s shoulders, that he might sit up to eat. 

“Thank you,” Geralt said, and his voice sounded all wrong to him. It was at once gruff and weak, his dry throat protesting and lame from lack of use. He tried clearing his throat, and spoke again with better results. 

“How long?” 

“Through the night, and all day,” Margit replied. She sat at the bed’s edge and guided the bowl of broth into his hands, “You drink that up, and then we’ll talk, alright?” 

Geralt nodded, and drank deeply from the bowl. It was good stock, salty and savoury and herbal. It made him warm all over, and wet his dry throat and lips pleasantly. 

“My friend,” he began after swallowing, “Is he…?”

“Still asleep,” Margit finished for him, “He will be a while longer, I believe. The two of you are sturdy folk. I couldn’t believe you were still alive when I got to you, that much venom in your system. That poor girl, Daria, had far less and was dead only a few minutes after you left.”

“Sturdy,” Geralt agreed, and raised the bowl back to his lips. 

“You, I understand,” Margit said, “You’re a Witcher, and besides that those elixirs of yours made short work of the poison. But him -” she cast a glance at the bedroom door, “He’s not... from around here, is he?” 

Geralt shook his head, but offered no explanation. 

“My elixirs,” he said, changing the subject, “How did you know which one?” 

Margit smiled sadly, “My wife,” she said, “She was very good friends with a Witcher, once upon a time. Told me all sorts of stories, all their adventures and all the times she had to dump this potion or that down the careless brute’s throat. I recognized the gold one, and the smell of it was right for an antitoxin.”

“You’re a healer?” Geralt guessed, and she nodded. 

“And your wife?” Her expression turned sad again, and Geralt was almost afraid to know.

“Died at the Witcher’s side,” Margit twisted the silver band on her left ring finger, “But before that she was a blacksmith. I think that’s why the Witcher liked having her around, he got his armour and swords cared for, and she got a lovely bit of adventure. Never liked the small town life, my darling girl.”

Geralt felt uncomfortable. His brow darkened as his thoughts turned to the memory of Jaskier, unconscious and bleeding out against his chest. The way his heart had slowed, the way Geralt hadn’t been able to save him, but had needed to be saved  _ by _ him. Everything had gone to shit so quickly, and he’d thought he was going to die. He had been ready for it. 

And as he’d lain on the ground, pinned below the basilisk and facing death, what had he done? His eyes had searched for Jaskier - for one last look. Geralt didn’t know what that meant, but it didn’t feel like nothing. 

“Tell me what happened, after we killed the beast,” Geralt demanded. 

“Well,” Margit began, shaking herself from her reverie, “That boy you saved came to get us. Word spread very quickly that the basilisk was dead, and merchants sprang from their beds to hack off bits of the hide and harvest as much venom as they could. There’s not much left of it, I’m afraid. I know you Witchers like to sell your quarry, if you can. Anyway, the mayor came out to see what all the ruckus was about, saw you lying there half dead, and said all the better if you’d taken care of each other, you and the basilisk, I mean. Said he’d save a little coin that way. I called him a bastard and said I’d make sure you lived, and that if he didn’t pay fairly he’d have my wooden spoon shoved up his arse to deal with.”

“Why did you help us?” Geralt wondered. Surely, this woman who’d lost her beloved at the side of a Witcher would have more reason than most to hate him, more reason to leave him for dead in the street. 

Margit toyed again with her ring, “For her,” she said, “She always thought the world was too cruel to your people. If I can honour her memory by lessening that cruelty, just a little, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you,” Geralt said, his expression and heart feeling softened. Margit nodded. 

They sat quiet for a while as Geralt finished the last of the broth. Then he spoke again. 

“Can I see him?” he asked. 

Margit raised an eyebrow, “I told you, he’s not-”

“I know,” Geralt interrupted, “I want to see him.”

“You shouldn’t move too much,” she protested, a little crease forming in the space between her brows, “You’ll hurt yourself worse - I don’t want you reopening those wounds.”

“Help me,” the Witcher said, growing impatient, “Help me to him, then.”

Margit’s lips tightened, but she nodded. Geralt swung his feet to the floor, and let the slight woman tuck herself beneath his arm, helping to lift him into a standing position. 

Every step hurt like hell, but that wasn’t what bothered him. It was the fact that the pain would not permit his body to move the way he wanted it to - the fact that it limited him. The frustration was worse than the burning ache in his chest. The pain got worse the longer he walked, compounding as every time his foot hit the ground, the impact sent another flare through his body, radiating out from his chest and restricting him further. 

The walk to Jaskier’s room was mercifully short. Just a few steps down a narrow hall and they’d made it. Margit pushed the door open, and guided him to the edge of the bard’s bed. 

He looked… he looked terrible. 

There were thick, blood-soaked bandages coiled tightly around Jaskier’s chest and shoulder. His arm, Geralt thought, was there too much damage? Would he still be able to play? The Witcher scowled. His hand reached out, almost without his permission, but he didn’t quite know where to put it. He only knew he wanted to touch the bard, feel with his own hands that he was alive, that he was ok - or would eventually be. 

He looked over Jaskier’s face, at once unbearably young and impossibly old. He looked peaceful, his expression relaxed and completely lacking its usual cocky bravado. Geralt was reminded of that night in the bog, the way Jaskier had looked before he’d awoken him. He had that same otherworldly calm about him, though the flush in his cheeks was far more pronounced. He was running a fever, Geralt could feel the heat coming off him in waves. 

“His body is burning the poison away,” Margit said, “I've never seen anything like it.”

“Not from around here,” Geralt reminded her. 

“Right.”

Geralt took Jaskier’s hand - the one on the uninjured side of his body - in both of his own. He wished that like the night they’d met, he could simply tug the bard upright and he’d wake with a gasp.

“He’ll be upset when he wakes,” Geralt said. Sleep was still not something Jaskier was completely comfortable with, and waking still set his body to tremors and wheezing. And if he woke somewhere unfamiliar, not knowing how much time had passed him by, all the worse.

“He shouldn’t be alone. I’ll stay with him.”

“You need to rest,” Margit shook her head, “I don’t want you worrying yourself sick over him while you ought to be focused on getting better yourself.”

Geralt scowled, “I’m fine,” he said. 

Margit rolled her eyes, but with a shake of her head the expression softened. 

“I understand,” she said, “He’s obviously a very good friend.”

“Hmm.” 

Geralt’s eyes were fixed on Jaskier, as though he thought if he stared hard enough, the bard would sense it and wake up, and make some snide comment about how he ought to commission a portrait, since it would last longer. 

“I’ll leave you to it, then. Ought to put the little ones to bed anyhow,” Margit said, and she closed the door gently behind her. 

Geralt was beginning to feel fatigued, his breaths growing more painful. 

“Fuck,” he whispered, a little to himself, a little to Jaskier, a little to the universe. 

The bed was big enough for two, and so the Witcher kicked his feet up and slid under the blanket. He was glad very briefly that the bard was not conscious to see it, because the ribbing he’d have received wouldn’t have been worth it. Not the closeness, not the warmth, not the dandelion milk scent that flooded his nose. 

Geralt inhaled deeply, and sleep took him once more. 

Jaskier continued to sleep for a little more than two full days. In that time, Geralt very seldom left the small bedroom. He spent his time meditating to help along the healing process, or pacing the length of the room for hours on end - until it hurt too badly to continue. Though he longed for the fresh air, he was determined that the bard would not wake alone, confused and afraid. Not after what he’d done. 

Margit came around to check on the two of them once in the morning, and once at night. She’d sit and chat to Geralt while her skilled hands changed both his and Jaskier’s bandages, cleaning the wounds and applying fresh salve. Geralt didn’t give much reply, but like Jaskier, Margit was more than content to talk enough for both of them. 

In the afternoons and evenings, she and her two young boys - Luka and Oskar - took their meals with Geralt. The four of them sat cross-legged on the floor of the bedroom, the boys and their mother trading stories of the day, and Geralt happy to listen and observe. 

The boys were endlessly fascinated by the Witcher. The younger of the two, Luka, who was only four or five years old, sat close to Geralt with his eyes rapt on the Witcher’s face. He mimicked his expressions, which were hilarious on the chubby, babyish face. Several times, Margit had to scold him for grabbing at the silver wolf medallion. Luka’s clumsy little hands tugged at the chain, fascinated by the way it shone in the light, and the gentle hum it gave off. 

Geralt would grab the little boy and spin him around, planting him firmly in his lap. He’d take Luka’s tiny hands, enveloping them within his own, and say, “You’d best keep those fingers to yourself, or the wolf will wake and bite them.”

The boy would giggle, delighted by the game, and Margit would smile fondly. 

Oskar, his brother’s senior by perhaps four or five years, wanted to hear Geralt’s stories of battle. Particularly he was interested in the basilisk, as he’d been tucked safely away in his bed as the fight happened, and had only heard second or third hand accounts from the other boys in the village, whose parents or older siblings had watched the whole affair from the tavern window. Most of these accounts, Geralt gathered, were outlandish and nowhere near accurate. He told the boy he’d have to wait for Jaskier to wake, as he was the far better storyteller and would do the tale justice. 

Sometimes the boy would wander into the little bedroom during the day when he grew bored with the books his mother had set him or tired of weeding the garden. On the first afternoon, Geralt showed him how to properly throw a punch. On the second, Oskar got in an awful lot of trouble for using his new trick on one of the boys at the market. Margit hadn’t been terribly impressed with either him or Geralt.

On the third morning, Geralt was sitting deep in meditation when Margit came in with her fresh bandages and herbal concoction. She went about her business as usual, telling him what plans she had for the day, how she’d sent the boys to play by the pond for the morning, what meal she thought to prepare for dinner. 

The Witcher came back to himself when she gasped. He opened his eyes, and shared in her surprise. 

Margit had unwound Jaskier’s bandages to find not gruesome puncture wounds, but gently puckering pink scars. Her fingers danced lightly over them, checking to see that her eyes were not deceiving her. 

“Impossible,” she whispered. 

Geralt rose from his spot on the floor in front of the window, and stood at her side. 

“How - I don’t understand how he could have - so quickly -”

“Not from around here,” Geralt reminded her. 

“Sturdy folk,” she agreed, “One moment, I’ll be right back.

Margit left, leaving the bandages sitting on the bed. Geralt, meanwhile, let his hand brush over Jaskier’s forehead. The fever had broken.

A shuddering gasp rattled through the bard then, and his lashes fluttered as his eyes opened. He looked up at Geralt and smiled, but the expression quickly became a scowl as his hand went to the place his wounds had been. 

“Ow, fuck,” he groaned.

“Jaskier,” Geralt said, his voice betraying the relief he felt. 

“Please tell me it hasn’t been another fifty years,” the bard said, half a laugh punctuating the words. 

Geralt shook his head and couldn’t help the smile that tugged the corner of his mouth.

“No,” he said, “Only three days, give or take.”

He lowered himself to the edge of the bed, and helped the bard ease himself up to a sitting position. Jaskier scowled again, jaw tightening at the pain as he had evidently moved too quickly. Though the punctures were closed and scarred, Geralt knew that an injury like that would hurt for a while yet. 

“Where are we exactly, Witcher?” he asked. 

“A woman from the tavern took us in. She’s been very kind.”

“Hmm. Quite nice to know there are actually decent people around. Lucky we found one, eh?”

Geralt nodded, “Lucky she found us. If she hadn’t -”

“Very glad she did,” Jaskier cut him off. 

“You know,” he continued, “That first night, you told me this would be dangerous. That I could die. I don’t think I really believed you. And then the drowners, and I thought I understood what you meant. That it wouldn’t be worse than that, and the devourers. But that basilisk…I thought we were both going to die,” his eyes searched Geralt’s face, though the Witcher didn’t know what he was looking for.

“And now, I fear I am in more danger than ever.”

Geralt’s eyes dropped, staring at a knot in the floorboard by his foot. This was it, then. Jaskier had reached his limit, had enough. And how could Geralt blame him? He’d nearly died. It was enough adventure for a lifetime, even one as long as Jaskier’s. 

“You should be well enough to travel soon,” Geralt said, not lifting his eyes from the floor, “You’ll have half the payment from the basilisk. You can buy a horse and be on your way, consider the debt forgiven. There’s no need for you to risk your life in my company any more than you already have.”

Jaskier put his hand over Geralt’s, “That’s not what I meant,” he said, “Only that I ought to take your warnings more seriously.”

“You should,” Geralt agreed, “Including this one. Leave. You might not recover so well next time.”

“Dearest,” Jaskier said, “I’m afraid that’s the one warning I could never abide.”

Geralt met the bard’s eye finally, and if a Witcher could blush, he’d have been beet-red. The warmth and fondness - it was almost too much. 

“Idiot bard,” he said kindly.

“Grump of a Witcher.” 

Jaskier’s hand was still atop Geralt’s, and the Witcher tentatively - experimentally - turned his over. Their palms rested against each other, their hands nearly the same size - Geralt’s was wider, thicker, but Jaskier’s fingers were longer. 

“I nearly killed a man,” Jaskier remembered, a little crease between his brows. 

Geralt nodded. 

“You were right. Smart not to trust me. I suppose I can’t be annoyed at you for not telling me your name anymore,” he laughed, a quiet, sad sound, “What on earth will I get cross with you about now?”

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Geralt replied. 

The Witcher had never really understood the phrase, “leap of faith.” To believe something that could not be proven, to take a risk when there was no guarantee of reward - it felt foolish. Decisions were to be considered, outcomes evaluated, and finally, when a move was known to be safe, it could be carefully executed with contingency plans in place - just in case. A hunch must be verified, pros and cons weighed. 

In that second, Geralt understood. He also understood why it was called a leap of faith - it felt exactly like falling. 

“Geralt,” he said. He realized a second too late that Jaskier had been about to speak, that he’d interrupted. 

Jaskier's face changed from irritation, to confusion, to a blank sort of shock as he realized. He stared at Geralt, eyes wide, eyebrows raised all the way up to his fringe, mouth a round little ‘o’ shape. 

“My name is Geralt, of Rivia.”

“Geralt,” Jaskier repeated, and he said the word like it was precious - holy - an enchantment of some sort. Like he was savouring the feel of it in his mouth, treasuring it. He smiled, wide and sincere. 

“It’s lovely to meet you, Geralt of Rivia,” he said. 

Geralt smiled back. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt of Rivia is good with kids and that is a hill I will die on. 
> 
> As always, thank you for reading, and for leaving comments and kudos. So much love.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The quiet life.

To describe Geralt and Jaskier’s time living in Margit’s home as anything other than idyllic would have been doing it a great disservice. 

Geralt couldn’t remember ever feeling such peace before. He particularly liked mornings, when he woke to greet each sunrise in a comfortable bed, usually with Jaskier having thrown an arm or a leg over him, or being pressed into his side. The two continued to share a room, and though Geralt told himself it was so that the children could have the other bed and wouldn’t have to sleep on the floor in the front room anymore, he knew that his reasons were purely selfish. 

As was so often the case, shame warred with pleasure deep in the battlefield of his psyche. 

Despite that, Geralt found it difficult to be too angry with himself, because his self-serving impulse actually had wrought some bit of good. Jaskier was sleeping better than ever. In the middle of the night, when the bad dreams started, the bard would thrash and whimper as usual, but then would throw a hand out, feel around the bed for Geralt, and calm instantly when he found him. He’d sleep soundly then, deep and restful. He didn’t wake early anymore, and was in far better spirits in the mornings. The Witcher felt rather pleased with himself. 

He always woke before Jaskier. Whether it was because the bard had a great deal of rest to catch up on, or he naturally was a late riser, Geralt didn’t know. He wanted to find out, wanted to live this cozy little life until Jaskier was healed of all that ailed him - not just the basilisk bite. Geralt wanted to see him at his best, in this comfort and happiness. He wanted to learn and memorize his bedtime routine, carve a permanent place in his mind for the image of him in his bedclothes, the sound of his morning voice and that first, deep breath that meant he’d woken. 

He realized it while he was lying in bed one morning. Jaskier was still asleep, sprawled half across his chest. The first radiant light of dawn streamed in the window, picking out lazy dust motes and turning Jaskier’s hair to spun gold wherever it touched it. Geralt could have laid there forever, feeling the warm sunlight, the soft sheets and quilt, the steady rhythm of the bard’s breath against his chest. His chest was still sore, but only a little, and it only bothered him when he put his arms over his head. The weight and pressure soothed him.

He realized it when the thought came into his head that he’d like nothing more than to spend every morning for the rest of his life in the exact same way, when his hand lifted of its own accord and his fingers began to thread themselves through Jaskier’s hair. Gently, as gently as he could. And Geralt nearly  _ purred _ at the feeling of it. The intimacy of it. 

Geralt realized that his attraction to Jaskier went far deeper than simply wanting to fuck. It was more complicated, bigger, and far more terrifying. 

He froze. He was in love. He’d fallen in love, somehow, without even noticing. 

Once Geralt had scented it, he could follow the trail back to the very first night they’d met. That kiss, that fucking kiss. The heat in his belly, the shame and pleasure embracing to set him alight that hadn’t left him alone even a second since. The sound of his voice, the set of his lips when he pouted, his humour, the way he insisted Geralt deserved better than his lot. There was his magic, the way his eyes lit up with it, the way he moved like he walked across a stage instead of on a dusty footpath, the way he paid attention, the way he was sometimes entirely too much to handle. When they’d trained together, pressed close, far too close. When Jaskier had stood wailing, wrist deep in the eyeball of the basilisk. There were moments, so many moments both little and big that all added up to love. 

Most recently there was this: Jaskier on top of him, prone and peaceful and trusting. Geralt couldn’t remember when last he’d been cuddled to sleep - if it had  _ ever _ happened. 

So Geralt was in love. 

He felt oddly subdued, oddly calm. The earth didn’t crash down around him, and the realization didn’t knock the breath from his lungs. 

He thought, of course. Of course I am. It was Jaskier. How could he have ever done anything but love him?

So he went back to weaving his fingers through the bard’s hair, waiting for him to wake. 

Yes, mornings were Geralt’s favourite time of the day. 

That is not to say however, that the other hours of the day did not have their own unique charms. 

Each day after breakfast, Margit had a list of chores for Geralt. He would spend the day helping with the wash, or dusting the tall cabinets that Margit couldn’t reach without a stool, or making repairs around the house, or working the garden. It was spring, after all, and there was much planting to be done. 

It was good, productive work that was immediately gratifying, and left him with a sense of accomplishment at the day’s end. And it was the perfect time of year for such work. While he laboured outdoors, planting or weeding, clearing fallen leaves from the rain gutters or fixing broken window shutters, the sun warmed his back, while the breeze kept him cool and comfortable. 

Jaskier was by no means left idle. He, Oskar, and Luka would spread an old quilt beneath the big oak in the back garden and settle in for the day’s lessons. Jaskier taught the boys writing, times tables, history, and music. 

Geralt got to listen in on the lessons while he worked outside, and was charmed to find that the bard took to teaching very well. He was patient, answering every one of the silly, nonsensical, and obvious questions that the boys could throw at him. He made the lessons fun, and got them up and running around whenever he could. 

With all of that, it was really no wonder that Margit was in no rush at all to usher Geralt and Jaskier from under her roof. In fact, she seemed to be determined to keep them comfortable and happy as long as possible, so as not to lose her live-in handyman and tutor. It was working. Though both had been ready to travel again after about a week, another had passed and still neither was in any hurry to get back on the road. To go back to sleeping on the ground and bathing in cold rivers, back to not knowing where their next meal would come from. 

It was easier, more fun to live in a  _ home. _ Somewhere filled with the sounds of laughing children and the strumming of a lute. The smell of baking bread and simmering soup, and the warmth of a hearth ready to offer respite at the end of a long day. It was a borrowed life, and the stink of impermanence hung in the air like an approaching storm - but it was so nice to pretend. That lovely fantasy, not Witcher and fae, Geralt and Jaskier. 

After lunch was served, usually picnic style, there was more work to be done, more texts to read, and more music to be played. Once the day’s tasks were finished, though - Geralt and Jaskier would take Oskar and Luka down to the pond while Margit cooked dinner. 

Geralt would fish, Luka stuck fast to his side asking endless questions and telling nonsensical stories. He crafted for the boy a fishing pole of his own, short enough that he wouldn’t be overwhelmed by it - and light enough that if he decided to attack his brother with it, no real damage could be done. This proved to be intelligent thinking on Geralt’s part. 

Meanwhile, Jaskier and Oskar would lie on the grassy bank, usually either napping or trading rhymes back and forth in a sort of poetry game. 

“For supper, I hope Mama makes stew.”

“If she doesn’t, I don’t know what I’ll do!”

“I’ll feel awfully sad and blue.”

“As if she’d served a smelly old shoe.”

“But if that shoe was filled with stew -”

“I’d say, ‘Mama! Please give me two!’”

The older boy had a real knack for words, a natural affinity that Jaskier confessed to feeling just a touch jealous of. 

“You see, Geralt, literacy and a love of words are not inherent to me, but rather were  _ beaten _ into me over several years of study. And along comes this little brat, no more than a sapling and already matching me rhyme for rhyme! It simply isn’t fair!” he complained one night, as they lay in bed.

“Hmm. Perhaps I ought to ask Oskar to compose my ballad, then,” Geralt teased. 

“Oh, shut up,” Jaskier laughed, and swung his pillow at the Witcher. 

One day, the morning brought with it a thick fog. By the mid-afternoon, dark storm clouds had gathered, and Geralt only just had time to tear the drying sheets from the wash line before the rain began to fall in heavy, fat droplets. As he did so, Jaskier chased the children inside, holding a large book over his head to protect his hair. Oskar and Luka shrieked and laughed, the younger making to spin back around and run out into the rainy evening. 

“Oh, no you don’t!” Jaskier laughed, scooping the toddler up in his arms. 

That evening, as they waited for dinner, the boys were sent to their room to play while Geralt and Jaskier had a hand of gwent in the kitchen, chatting easily with Margit while she cooked. 

Geralt had noticed over the past several days that when she thought Jaskier wasn’t looking, Margit would toss shy glances at the bard. They were accompanied by coy little smiles and pink cheeks. The Witcher could not pretend he didn’t know what that meant. It put an uncomfortable, tight feeling in his chest.

Margit, who was standing at the hearth over a pot of stew, snuck a look at Jaskier over her shoulder. The bard, who sat with his back to her, was none the wiser, and in fact seemed not to give much mind to any of her lingering looks or casual touches. 

Geralt hated watching the little dance she did around Jaskier. He wished she would just make a move on him, so that they could either fuck or not and be done with it, and Geralt could decide whether he wanted to hate Margit or sympathize with her. 

Geralt laid down a card, “Jaskier,” he said, “What sort of spell have you put on our hostess?”

Jaskier raised his eyebrows, rearranging the cards in his hand, “None at all, Geralt. Why ever do you ask?”

“The poor lady can’t take her eyes off you,” Geralt said, meeting Margit’s irritated glare. 

“Ah, that.” So he had noticed. 

“What can I say?” Jaskier grinned, “I’m irresistible.”

“Hmm.”

“I must admit, I’m quite cross with you, Geralt,” Jaskier said. He laid down a card. 

“Hmm?”

“Yes. The implication that  _ I, _ Jaskier, would have to employ magical means in order to attract a woman, I find completely offensive,” he said, “Laying aside the rather dubious ethics of love magic - you know, these days I don’t really go in for that sort of thing - women were throwing themselves at me  _ long _ before -”

He stopped, mid-sentence, and scowled. Jaskier looked a little startled, a little upset. He cocked his head, trying to get back whatever thought had so suddenly escaped him. 

“Before - before - Well,” he shook his head, regaining his composure, “I don’t remember. Women have always been enamoured with me. Men too, for that matter. There was a stable hand once, many years ago, I was much younger then. These days I would even think of it, a so-called ‘romp in the hay’ is not nearly so much fun as it sounds, believe me. Bits of straw poking you in all the  _ wrong _ places while you try to enjoy yourself - and the rash I had afterwards! The rash from the  _ hay, _ Geralt, please don’t look at me like that. In any case, it wasn’t worth it, although I never met anyone else who was so good at -”

“Well, I certainly didn’t mean to offend,” Geralt interrupted, “I only found it a bit curious.”

“Why’s that?” Margit asked. She stepped away from the pot, and moved to stand behind Jaskier. She put her hand on his shoulder. 

“I thought you were… more fond of blacksmiths than bards,” Geralt said, doing his best to be delicate. 

Margit laughed, “I’m fond of all sorts,” she said. 

“You’ll forgive me for assuming you had better taste, then,” the Witcher said, smiling. 

Jaskier sputtered a bit, and Margit laughed. 

Margit, hand still on Jaskier’s shoulder, looked down at the bard. 

“Well,” she said, “Since Mister Geralt has been so kind as to make plain the nature of my feelings, I must ask. What do you think?” 

Jaskier laid down his second-to-last card, then took Margit’s hand from his shoulder and kissed her knuckles. 

“My darling, I truly am flattered. You’re a wonderful lady, and anyone would be lucky to have you,” he said.

“But?” Margit asked. 

“But,” Jaskier nodded, “I’m afraid I must decline. My heart belongs to another.”

Both Margit and Jaskier looked at Geralt, though the Witcher could not think why. He played his last card. 

“I thought as much,” Margit said, “Ah well. I’m sure I’ll survive.”

“If it’s any consolation to you, the object of my own affections remains far out of my reach,” Jaskier said.

“Your rival’s betrothed,” Geralt remembered. The fae woman he’d fallen in love with all those years ago. He loved her still. 

Jaskier looked down, and Margit turned back to the hearth. The bard played his last card.

“And I believe that’s my win,” he said, “Fancy another hand?”

Evenings were nearly as nice as mornings. There was good food, plenty of drinks, good company, good music, and a warm hearth to curl up beside. There were games, bedtime stories for the children, and once the little ones had scampered off, much more exciting bedtime stories for the adults. It was lovely, and it warmed Geralt’s chest and reminded him a little of the long winters spent in Kaer Morhen, gathered around the fire trading tales with the other wolves.

When the hour grew late, and the fire was put out, it was time for bed. The three would part ways for the night, Margit to her bedroom and Jaskier and Geralt to theirs. 

The night was Geralt’s least favourite part of the day. The first few hours of it, anyway. When he and Jaskier lay in bed together, not touching. The Witcher felt tense, uneasy. The distance between them felt simultaneously far too great, and not nearly enough. Inches, that was all it was. He felt each of them, fixated on the little space. If he shifted, just a little, they’d be touching. He remained perfectly still. 

It was ridiculous to agonize over it, especially when he knew Jaskier would reach for him soon enough, and he never once apologized for the contact come morning. If he reached out, just a hand or an arm, just reached out and admitted to wanting the bard, admitted to wanting him close - he could get some fucking sleep. Not feel the agonizing anticipation. 

Geralt did not reach out. 

Yes, it was a lovely, idyllic life. A borrowed life, and it was never going to last forever. Already it had gone on too long. Wanderlust and restlessness crept slowly into Geralt’s heart, and soon he longed for the road, for the path. He had a purpose, and leaving it unfulfilled for so long didn’t sit well with him. 

So, one morning he broached the subject to Jaskier. 

It was early. Geralt had just woken, and instead of letting himself revel in the morning as he usually did, he extracted himself from beneath Jaskier, and stood by the window. It would be a nice day, he thought. The scent on the air was fresh, vegetal and green. It called to him, his heart ached for it. 

He heard the instant that Jaskier awoke. That first deep breath, and then a yawn.

“Geralt?” he said, voice bleary with sleep. 

“I’m a Witcher, Jaskier,” Geralt replied. 

“Are we stating the obvious today? In that case, I ought to tell you that I lo-”

“I can’t stay here anymore. It’s time to go,” Geralt cut him off. He turned to face the bard, who was propped up on his elbows, staring back at him with raised brows. 

“What?” 

“It’s time to go,” the Witcher repeated, “If you want to stay, I understand.”

“You’d leave me here?” Jaskier asked, tilting his head to the side. 

Geralt nodded. 

“Do you…  _ want _ to leave me here?” 

Geralt turned back to the window. 

“Do you want me to come with you?” 

Geralt gave no indication. 

"Do what you want," the Witcher said. 

“For fuck’s sake, Geralt,” Jaskier said, soft, “What do _you_ want?”

“Does it matter?” 

“Yes. To me.”

“Hmm.”

“Will you ask me?” Jaskier said, “Will you ask me to follow you? Please?”

Geralt didn’t turn from the window. 

“Come with me,” he said, “I want you to come with me.”

“Of course,” Jaskier replied, “Will we leave today? Tomorrow?”

“Today,” Geralt said. 

“Alright. Ok,” he took a deep breath, “Well, you ought to go and ready Roach, and I suppose I’ll get everything packed.”

Geralt was relieved. He released the tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying in his shoulders. The Witcher smiled, a small, private thing. 

Leaving was hard. Margit cried as she saw them off, quiet little tears that ran in twin rivers down her cheeks. Oskar and Luka too, were upset. Luka wailed and fussed, while Oskar clung steadfastly to Jaskier’s leg. He didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to let them leave. 

They were on the road before midday. Though sadness clouded the air, there was a certain freedom, a promise of possibility that hummed in Geralt’s chest. The path lay ahead of them, open and wild and inviting. 

“So, Geralt,” Jaskier said, “Where are we off to next?” 

Geralt smiled. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A family can be an emotionally repressed Witcher, an ageless fae bard, a slightly opportunistic bisexual widow, and her two rambunctious sons. 
> 
> Reading the comments on the last chapter is bringing me so much joy, seriously I love you guys.


	16. Chapter 16

The road stretched, wide and open and beautiful in front of them. Huge trees, branches dripping with newly unfurled leaves and buds on the verge of blossom hung over the path Geralt and Jaskier walked, occasionally brushing the top of the Witcher’s head. Jaskier would reach up every so often, and pull a leaf from a low-hanging branch. He’d wordlessly hold it out for Geralt to take, and every time he opened his hand to accept it, the bard called him a fucking idiot for accepting a gift from a fae. 

Sunlight streamed through the foliage, making patterns and shapes that danced and swayed in time with the jaunty breeze that blew through. The scent on the air was fresh and green, floral and perfect. The steady, even sound of Roach’s clopping hooves kept time for Jaskier as he sang and strummed, telling stories of a new, fresh love set to overly sweet melodies. 

Geralt had missed the road terribly. Being back on it threw into sharp relief just how much he’d longed for it. It was like releasing a breath he didn’t even know he was holding. A lightness in his head and chest buoyed him, to be back in the saddle at last felt a little like floating. He did, admittedly, feel a little foolish at the joy it brought him. After all, it wasn’t so long ago that Geralt had teased Jaskier for waxing poetic about life on the road, and here he was - misty-eyed at the splendor of it all. The bard’s romantic tendencies were rubbing off on him, which was a truly terrifying thought. Who ever heard of a sentimental Witcher?

Eventually, they emerged from the trees into a grassy meadow - a clearing full of wildflowers, dotted with little mushrooms and humming with honeybees. 

“Ah,” Jaskier flopped into the tall grass without hesitation, the impact throwing up a cloud of pollen, “A perfect spot to make camp.”

Geralt looked at the sky, where the sun and horizon had yet to become acquainted with each other. 

“Little early, isn’t it?” he asked. 

“I’m tired,” Jaskier complained, “I’m not used to walking anymore. My feet hurt.”

“Didn’t realize you were so delicate,” Geralt said. He dismounted Roach, and walked to where Jaskier laid. He stared down at the bard with hands on his hips, and shook his head when Jaskier patted the ground next to himself.

“Really?” Jaskier said, a smile playing at his lips, “Was naming myself after a flower too subtle?”

“I’m not much for subtlety,” Geralt replied, matching the bard’s easy, amused expression, “I much prefer directness.” 

“Gods,” Jaskier laughed, “I know! Believe me, I know. All the poetry in the world is lost on you, if I want to tell you something I’ve got to beat you over the head with it, and even then.”

“Even then,” Geralt agreed. 

Jaskier sighed, “Come lay here a while. Please?”

The Witcher shook his head, “We should keep moving.”

“Fine,” Jaskier relented, “We don’t have to stay - just come take a break. I really am sore, and you know Roach could use a rest.”

One of the more inconvenient things about having fallen in love with Jaskier was that it had become very difficult for Geralt to tell him no. Had the bard asked him to pluck a star out of the night sky, Geralt didn’t think he’d be able to bring himself to refuse.

As such, the Witcher let out a long sigh and eased himself into the grass beside Jaskier. The bard made a pleased sound and let his eyes drift closed. His long lashes brushed over his cheeks, which were dusted with the tiny freckles that were brought out by all his time in the sun. 

Geralt wondered what might happen if he reached out, cupped his hand to Jaskier’s face. Would he recoil? Laugh? Be as kind and apologetic as he’d been to Margit? What if Geralt leaned forward, closed the gap between them and pressed their lips together? How would he be met? Knowing, he decided, was not worth the risk. 

Jaskier opened his eyes, and though Geralt turned away immediately, he knew he’d been caught staring. He rolled his eyes at Jaskier’s pleased smile. Another inconvenient bit about being in love was how often he found himself accidentally stroking the bard’s already generous ego. 

“What are you thinking about?” Jaskier asked. 

_ You, _ he wanted to say. 

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? Nothing at all rattling around in that lovely head of yours?” Jaskier didn’t sound convinced. 

_ Lovely. _ Ever the flatterer. Geralt knew no part of himself could ever be called lovely, not with any degree of honesty. The teasing didn’t bother him much, though. He was used to far worse. 

“Nothing,” he repeated. 

“Do you want to know what I’m thinking about?”

“I suspect you’ll tell me, regardless of what answer I give,” Geralt smiled. 

“Such a clever Witcher. I’m thinking about how glad I am it was you who saved me,” Jaskier said. His hands, perpetually fidgeting, grasped at blades of grass. He tore a strand up and reached over, balancing it carefully on the tip of the Witcher’s nose. Geralt blew it away. 

“And how, had I known it was you waiting for me above, I would have woken of my own accord and clawed my way up to you. That scoundrel Marx would have had to bury me far deeper to keep me from you. His paltry would-be grave could never hold me down.”

“Hmm.” The bard was lost in his poetic ramblings, as per usual.

“Fuck,” Jaskier said, “I don’t know that one. Was that a wistful hum, or a regretful one?” 

“It was a ‘don’t put grass on my fucking face’ hum,” Geralt said. 

Jaskier laughed, this time coming at him with a tiny yellow flower - a buttercup. He tucked it into the Witcher’s hair, just above his ear. 

“You’re insufferable,” Geralt said, batting his hand away. 

“I’m irresistible!” 

Geralt snorted, and lightly jabbed an elbow into Jaskier’s side. The bard squawked, a startled, undignified sound. He immediately clapped a hand over his traitorous mouth. 

Geralt laughed. A full on, from the gut laugh. The sound surprised him, it’d escaped his lips entirely without his permission. 

Jaskier was grinning, “You keep those elbows to yourself! They’re dangerous things, terribly pointy.”

Geralt didn’t say anything, but prodded him again. His efforts produced another lovely, horrible noise from the bard, who shortly decided that the time had come for retaliation. 

As children, Witchers tended to wrestle, tumbling around on the ground with each other and shouting as though they really were wolf pups. When communication skills were not emphasized, physical means of resolving arguments and showing affection tended to emerge almost by default. One wrestled to say I love you, and one wrestled to say I’m cross with you, and one wrestled to say I’m bored, please pay attention to me, and one wrestled to decide who would have to do the tidying today. And that was all besides the fact that it was just plain fun. 

Geralt had long since outgrown that particular habit, since it was not quite as acceptable to throw someone to the ground and pin them now that he was no longer a child. 

However, when Jaskier pounced on him, some bit of instinctive muscle memory activated within the Witcher, and suddenly he felt impossibly young. 

Jaskier was no match for Geralt’s raw strength, but the Witcher underestimated his speed again and again. They struggled against each other, laughing and swearing and trading the upper hand back and forth, rolling in the soft grass.

It was something Geralt understood. There were no lingering glances, no too-soft touches. There was no tension to it, the opposite, in fact. It was release, release of all the awkwardness and uncertainty he felt. He didn’t have to mask his intention, come up with some benign reason to justify the contact he so desired. He could simply take it, without having to claim the wanting that howled in him like a wild animal. It was easier. 

It ended with Geralt on top, both Jaskier’s wrists gripped tightly in one of his hands and pinned to the ground, the bard staring up at him wide-eyed and breathless, his cheeks pink with effort. He squirmed a little, but Geralt did not relent. 

“I win,” he said. 

“Debatable,” Jaskier replied.

The Witcher released him, standing and offering a hand to help him up. 

“Come on,” he said, “Plenty of ground to cover before sundown.”

They walked on until the hazy, pinkish glow of sunset settled over the valley. The golden light of the late afternoon dimmed to a dusky hue, and the little insects and frogs that called the Pontar region home began their evening ballads. 

The atmosphere at the little makeshift camp Geralt and Jaskier set up was at first amicable, peaceful as was usual. Jaskier composed, working away at his new ode to the basilisk, Geralt tended to Roach, and they both sated their rumbling stomachs. Margit, in her infinite kindness, had sent them away with saddlebags full of preserves and fresh baked goods, and so the supper was pleasant and filling, reminding them of the borrowed home they’d shared. 

The light of day faded, and the fire smouldered low, the embers glowing just brightly enough to see by. Geralt watched how the amber light played over Jaskier’s intensely focused features, the bard’s tongue just barely peeking from the corner of his mouth as he worked. The way the firelight interacted and fought with Jaskier’s own, seemingly internal light was almost hypnotic, like dappled sunlight dancing over a statue. 

As the hour advanced, an air of uncertainty settled over the camp, and Geralt was somewhat surprised to find that it did not come from himself. The tension instead was rolling off Jaskier in waves. He was  _ nervous. _ Geralt felt very sure the bard had never been nervous a day in his life, yet there he was. He got up to pace, then sat quickly back down. Laid on his bedroll and sat back up. Strummed his lute absentmindedly, hitting wrong notes and not even seeming to notice. He was quiet. Thinking, Geralt imagined, though about what he didn’t know. 

Finally, Geralt grew weary of watching his companion apparently lose his mind. He laid down to go to sleep, facing away from the fire - away from Jaskier. 

“Right. Suppose I’ll go to bed as well then,” Jaskier said, “Goodnight, Geralt.”

“Goodnight, Jaskier.”

He heard the bard settle in, or try to. He turned over again and again, fidgeting and sighing. 

Only a few minutes later, the bard started swearing. 

“Oh fuck this,” he said, “Bollocks to this, fucking bullshite for fuck’s sake, I can’t fucking -” 

Geralt propped himself up on his elbows and turned to see what could possibly be provoking him. 

There was nothing, just Jaskier on the other side of the campfire. He was gathering his things up into his arms and scowling. He walked around the fire, dropping things and stumbling the whole way. 

Jaskier threw his bedroll down, less than an inch separating it from Geralt’s, and laid down. 

“What are you doing?” Geralt asked. 

“Getting some fucking rest, if that’s alright,” Jaskier said, “I’m not going to suffer a sleepless night for the sake of your… I dunno, your pride? Is that why you won’t admit it? Is that why you won’t ask?” 

Geralt scowled. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, voice low. 

“Sure,” Jaskier said, “Sure. We don’t -” he sighed, “We don’t have to talk about it now,” his voice had softened a little, the irritation and anxiety giving way to a gentle sort of understanding. 

“Nothing to talk about,” Geralt said, still gruff. 

“Right,” Jaskier laughed, “Nothing at all. You’ll let just anyone cuddle up to you in the night, typical Witcher behaviour, nothing to see here.”

“You sleep better with someone next to you,” Geralt said, doing his best to pretend it was not an excuse, not a safe justification, “We’ll move quicker if you’re well rested.”

“Right. Right,” Jaskier shook his head, “Will you look at me? Turn over and look at me.”

Geralt obliged, turning to face Jaskier. The bard pushed his finger into the space between Geralt’s eyebrows, that space where a little crease lived more often than not. He smoothed it out, and the Witcher let him. He felt the touch, drank it in like a fine wine. His eyes fluttered closed as his face relaxed, falling slack at the gentle but insistent touch. 

“I don’t think I realized how difficult this is for you,” Jaskier said, and Geralt did not reply. 

“You Witchers, with your self-flagellating. You deserve to be happy, Geralt. You ought to let yourself. It wouldn’t be the end of the world, you know. You could still do all your - Witchering, and whatnot. Just maybe not be such a miserable bastard,” he said, “Life doesn’t have to just be need and instinct and purpose. You’re allowed to enjoy yourself -  _ want _ things for yourself. If nobody’s ever told you that - then I- I want to tell you. I want to make sure you know. I know you know  _ how, _ I saw you at Margit’s, how happy you were. How free you let yourself be. After all that, I thought maybe - but I’m afraid that now we’re back on the road… And I know that you’re not stupid. I know you see. You _must."_

The bard’s hand rested against his face, palm to his cheek and thumb smoothing over his brow. He felt strangely  _ seen, _ as though Jaskier had looked inside him to his very heart - laid him bare and still was able to speak to him with such kindness, such generosity. It was far more than he deserved.

Geralt still didn’t say anything, didn’t know what to say. Jaskier’s words dripped with implication, with  _ knowing. _ It scared him. And that took a lot, for a Witcher. 

“Whenever you’re ready,” Jaskier whispered, “I can wait. I’ll wait for you.” 

And oh, Geralt felt something, some bit of understanding. Something Jaskier had said, but not aloud. Oh. 

“Hmm.”

“That one was definitely a bit pleased, I think,” Jaskier said, and Geralt could hear the smile in his voice. 

Geralt felt cold as the light, sweet pressure of Jaskier’s hand on his face disappeared. His heart seemed to jump into his throat as that wild animal that lived within him, the one that was insatiably hungry for touch, took him over. A low rumble hummed in his chest, and his hand jumped to catch Jaskier’s. He took the bard’s hand, holding it tightly in his own. 

Geralt opened his eyes, and was met by Jaskier’s wonderfully smiling face. Yes, Geralt thought, yes. He understood. 

Their entwined hands rested between them as they both fell quickly and easily to sleep. 

They didn’t talk about it in the morning. They didn’t talk about it in the morning, nor when they stopped for a break at midday, nor in the afternoon, nor when twilight began once more to run its gentle hands over the land, and the next town finally came into view. 

It was larger than the last, but only just. The buildings were of a similar construction, but all in far better repair, freshly painted. They seemed to be preparing for some sort of festival or celebration, too. There were brightly coloured flags, banners and wreaths adorning the outsides of most of the buildings, their occurrences more frequent as Geralt and Jaskier got closer to the main market square. The air was lively, music and the scent of frying foods wafting about. 

“Oho, I think I’m going to like this one, Geralt,” Jaskier said with delight, his expression stretching to a wide grin. His fingers were already busying themselves with his lute, adding his own harmonies to the music. He tilted his head to listen, picking out the more intricate bits of the melody and replicating them with ease.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. He’d never tell the bard, but Geralt was actually looking forward to seeing Jaskier in his natural element. He was a performer by nature and trade - the Witcher was curious to see him play in that context. 

The two rounded the corner of a squat brick building and emerged into the square. 

The trouble began almost immediately. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Putting grass on your crush as a form of flirting is SEVERELY underrated, imo.
> 
> I officially finished my second year of college on Thursday (yay me!), so since I've a got a lot more free time now I wanted to throw it out there to you guys that if you had any oneshot prompts you'd like to see me tackle, my [askbox](https://tristranthorne.tumblr.com/ask) over on tumblr is always open. I'd be happy to have a stab at them in between writing chapters of this fic :)
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading, leaving kudos, and commenting. It truly does mean the world to me.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lil baby cw for (frankly, milder than canon-typical) fantasy racism of the anti-elf variety.

Jaskier gasped, “Geralt,” he said, his voice low, but saturated with excitement, “It’s a _wedding.”_

Indeed, it was. Set up in the main square was a wood arch and several rows of benches. All were draped in the same brightly coloured fabrics and flowers as the rest of the town. Candles, dozens and dozens of them were scattered about, and the cobblestone street was littered with pink flower petals. Beneath the arch stood three people. The one on the right was a woman in a fitted green gown, her deep brown corkscrew curls were gathered in an elaborate style on top of her head, adorned by a glittering hairnet. The bronze belt and jewelry she wore contrasted attractively against the smooth, amber hue of her skin. The man who stood next to her was her opposite in every way - pale, with cornsilk hair, rather thinner and taller where his bride-to-be was shorter and rounder. The officiant, standing behind them with her holy book open, wore a priestess’ robe and headscarf. 

The music had halted, and the couple, the priestess, and all the guests had turned at the sound of their entrance to see who had dared interrupt the ceremony. Geralt found himself very much wishing that the ground would open up, and swallow him whole - horse, swords, and all. 

“Oh Geralt,” Jaskier was incorrigible in his delight, “It’s been so long since I’ve played a _wedding,_ d’you have any idea how well they pay? I’ll tell you, _very_ well. Oh, what good luck -”

“Jaskier,” Geralt interrupted him, keeping his voice quiet, “Shut up.”

A man had stood up, he had the same set to his slightly rounded jaw and same amber skin as the bride, though he looked decidedly older.

“Witcher!” he shouted. Geralt’s stomach sank. 

“We should go,” he said to Jaskier. 

The man wasn’t finished. 

“A Witcher! What did I tell you all? This union,” he pointed emphatically to the bride and groom, “is cursed! Cursed! I’ve said it from the very beginning, and none of you -” he swept his arm in a wide circle around himself, gesturing to the square full of guests, “- wanted to believe me! You thought me a fool! But what more proof do you need than this?” he was pointing at Geralt now, “A Witcher, an omen of death, misfortune, and all things _foul_ has ridden into the middle of the ceremony! This is a sign from the gods! This wedding cannot go on, for _death,_ a pale rider on a dark horse has arrived to halt it!” 

He spoke as though he were delivering lines, as though he didn’t believe a word of it. The man rushed forward to the arch, and grabbed the bride - who Geralt guessed was his daughter - around the top of her arm and tried to pull her away. 

The guests, who at first had murmured their confusion, were beginning to speak up in agreement. 

“What are the odds?” one person said, “It must be a sign!”

“Death follows those wretched creatures, the marriage is cursed!” 

“This cannot be allowed!”

The groom looked frozen in place, timid and unsure. He tucked his shaggy white-blond hair behind his ear, and suddenly everything made sense - why the father of the bride wanted so badly an excuse to call off the wedding.

He was elven. Half elf, most likely, but at the very least a quarter. 

“Da!” the bride shrieked, yanking her arm from his grasp. Her chin quivered, her eyes gone glassy with tears just barely held at bay. 

“Da, you promised there would be no more of this! You gave your blessing!” she cried, shoving her father’s hands away as he attempted to grab her over and over.

“Who are we to defy the gods, Lainey!? Even _you_ are not so arrogant as to ignore this omen,” he said, and he did not look the least bit sympathetic, nor regretful. 

“Time to go,” Geralt insisted. 

Jaskier looked up at him, “What? Are we not going to do anything?”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, “None of our business.”

“None of our - are you kidding? Geralt, the wedding’s been called off because of us, how is that -”

“Because of _me.”_ Geralt cut him off, losing patience, “Because a foul _Witcher_ has brought doom to this poor town. Anyway, look at the father, standing there grinning. He would have found some way to stop the wedding whether I was here or not, Witchers just happen to make good scapegoats. We’re going. Come on.”

“No,” Jaskier shook his head, “I can - I’ll talk to him. Reason with him.”

“Do you truly think you can reason with him? Or will you charm him?” Geralt said, “This won’t end well, Jaskier. There’s a reason I don’t get involved in the quarrels of humans. A closed mind is more easily opened with a sword than a pretty word.”

“Don’t be a prick,” Jaskier said, scowling, “As if I need magic to get my way. Charm him - please, _I’m_ fucking _charming,_ Geralt.”

“Hmm.”

“Fuck, just let me try this, ok?”

And again, it was so difficult to say no. Geralt sighed. If this ended in a stoning, he would not be pleased. And what did the bard really think he could accomplish, anyway? One so set in his ways as the father of the bride, one with such an ulterior motive as he had surely wouldn’t budge.

“Excellent. Could you look a little less like you want to kill the entire wedding party? Yes - ok, maybe not like that, eesh, Geralt please, less with the _teeth_ \- Oh, oh, that’s good, yes - just like that. Alright, here goes nothing.”

Jaskier stepped forward, and raised his hands. 

“Good people, I implore you, please be silent!” he said, raising his voice above the chatter. 

Not a single person paid him any mind. 

“Good folk of this lovely town, please allow me to - oh for fuck's sake."

The bard put his fists on his hips, “Oi!” he shouted, “Shut up a minute!” That did the trick a little better. Everyone stopped, and turned to look at him. While Geralt and Jaskier had been busy bickering, the wedding had devolved into chaos. The bride, Lainey, was weeping openly now, clinging to her beloved, who looked as if he wished, as Geralt had earlier, that the ground would swallow him up. A gaggle of young women, the bride’s friends perhaps, attempted to coax her away from the elven man. Not a single person stood by the unfortunate groom, there was no one in the crowd who belonged to him. Such was the life of a half-elf. No place among elves or men. Geralt pitied him, truly. 

“That’s better!” Jaskier continued when the square fell quiet at last, “Now, I’m afraid there seems to have been a tiny, eensy-weensy bit of a mix-up this fine evening.”

“No mix-up,” the father said, shaking his head, “That there’s a death omen! I won’t have my only daughter marrying in the shadow of evil.”

“Evil?” Jaskier said, he put his hand to his chest in an overly dramatic show of surprise, “My good sir, do you really not know?”

“What?” the father scowled. 

“I’m shocked, simply shocked!” Jaskier said, “This wedding, this beautiful union - it is not cursed, but _blessed._ You see, a Witcher is not a portent of evil, dark things, no - not at all. Quite the opposite, sir. A Witcher brings peace, protection, and the promise of a life unburdened by the threat of monstrous evil,” Jaskier turned, and smiled up at Geralt. 

The father sneered, “They’re greedy, mutated, abominations. Peace omens, bah! I’ve never heard such horseshite in my life.”

But as steadfast as he was in his conviction, the crowd had turned back to confusion, unsure of who to believe.

“My good sir,” Jaskier said, “I weep for you, truly, I do. To be so woefully uninformed, simply a tragedy.”

“Are you calling me stupid?” the father demanded, scowling, “If you are, you smart-mouthed bastard, I swear, I’ll -”

“I would _never_ go so low as to insult your intelligence, good sir,” the bard’s voice had taken a slightly mocking tone, “I would only wonder, how such an _intelligent_ man, such as yourself, could have been so cruelly duped into believing that a Witcher - and the famous White Wolf at that - could be perceived as an omen of _death?”_ he was not addressing the father anymore, but the crowd. Geralt heard a couple of chuckles - disguised as fits of coughing - from among the guests. 

“Duped?!” the father’s face was growing red, little veins popping out on his forehead, and the Witcher could smell the metallic tang of anger begin to permeate the air, “Duped?! I speak only fact!”

“My good sir,” Jaskier said, barely holding back a laugh himself, “Fact? Now, I know it is terribly embarrassing to be called out on false information, just humiliating, I know - but tempting as it is to hold fast to the lie, good sir, I must implore you to resist. You’ll only succeed in embarrassing yourself further. These good people are far too clever to buy in. As they say, sir, the jig is up.”

The laughter from the crowd was growing steadily less subtle, and the father’s face redder and more furious. Geralt understood then what Jaskier’s goal was. He wasn’t trying to win over the father, but the crowd. He wanted to provoke the man, make him ridiculous and discredit him. 

“He’s famous?” one of guests, likely the bride’s kin, asked. The woman pointed to Geralt. 

“Indeed!” Jaskier said, whirling and gesturing to the Witcher, who did his best to look impressive, “This is the most noble Witcher - Geralt of Rivia, the courageous and bold White Wolf, who only weeks ago slayed a basilisk which held an entire town hostage in their fear of it. He saved the life of a young boy in the process, and has personally saved my life thrice over! I don’t know of a Witcher who is more famed or beloved!” 

It was technically true. Jaskier simply didn’t know any other Witchers. 

“Don’t tell me,” - the mocking tone was back - “That _none_ of you good people have heard of him?”

Silence. The guests all looked around at each other, and Geralt saw Jaskier’s smile falter, for just a split second. And then - 

“I think I _have_ heard of him!” said one of the guests. 

“I - I have too!”

“Yeah, my cousin from Temeria, he said a white-haired Witcher cured the princess!”

“So you see,” Jaskier said, confidence fully restored, “How could one so heroic, so noble, possibly herald bad tidings? The Witcher’s presence here is a _blessing,_ this marriage shall be fruitful indeed, full of joy and prosperity. I can only hope for a Witcher to be present when one day _I_ wed, for the good fortune it would bring is beyond measure.”

Geralt choked on his breath a little at that last bit. 

“No!” the father yelled, grasping Lainey by the arm once more, too tightly - so tight she cried out. 

“No! My daughter will not marry that beast!” he pointed to the groom, the scowl on his face so nasty, so venomous that even the Witcher wanted to look away, “Full of dirty _elven_ blood, the fucking savage won’t lay a hand on my daughter! I’d- I’d-” he looked ready burst with fury, and desperation. The wedding guests looked on with something between disgust and pity. 

“I’d sooner see her _dead!”_ he spat. 

Jaskier held a hand out, expression completely changed. He was no longer jovial, no longer playing. He was completely serious now, “Sir, please, you don’t want to do anything rash. Are you truly telling me you’d sooner have a dead daughter than a happily married one?”

Lainey spoke up then. Her voice shook terribly, with fear, and with sadness. 

“Da? Are you going to kill me?” she sounded utterly broken. 

The man seemed to realize what he’d said, and his furious expression broke, betraying at once the horror he felt. 

“Lainey…”

“Da? Answer me,” she turned in his grip, turned to look him in the eye, “Are you… Are you going to kill me?” her voice grew stronger. 

“Don’t marry him,” the man pleaded, “Please, Lainey. I wanted so much better for you. What man could want a half-breed for a son in law? What man dreams of swaddling his elfling grandchildren? There are plenty of decent men who would have you, Lainey, _please.”_

“Da,” Lainey put her hand against her father’s cheek, “I’m in love with Arturo. We love each other, why isn’t that enough for you? Da, I’ve never asked you for anything, not a day in my life. Please, Da. Please don’t fight this.”

Lainey was not alone in her pleas. Many of the wedding guests spoke up in her defense. 

“C’mon, Boris, give it up.” 

“Let the poor girl be, old man.”

“Don’t be such an arse!”

Jaskier, sensing that he’d done all he could, moved back to Geralt’s side. 

“Well done,” Geralt whispered. 

“It was, wasn’t it?” the bard smiled. 

The father, Boris, looked defeated. He looked at his daughter, at the crowd of guests, searching for even one friendly face, looked at Jaskier, and finally the groom, Arturo. 

Arturo, who had until that point remained rather silent, most of his energy seemingly going towards keeping himself from crying, stepped forward. 

He spoke with a timid voice, stuttering and starting over a couple times before getting it right. 

“Sir, I know you don’t like me, or my people. And I know nothing I can say tonight will change that. All I ask is for the opportunity to try. I’ll try, and keep trying for the rest of my days, because I love your daughter. I love her more than there are stars in the sky, and I promise, I _promise_ , to treasure her, treat her as the queen she ought to be. And not a word you say will ever stop me,” he said. His voice grew more steady, more confident, as he spoke, “You can break up this wedding, but you can never stop me loving her.”

Boris’ hand fell from his daughter’s arm, finally, as Lainey turned to her fiance. She practically glowed, her smile wide and her eyes shining with new, joyful tears. Arturo took her hands, kissed both of them in turn, and beamed back down at her.

“And I,” she said, “Promise to love you with everything I am, everything I have. I’ll be faithful, and caring, and completely devoted to our family. I am your fated other half, and you the destiny of my heart. It would be a joy, and a privilege to grow old with you, even if it’ll take a little longer for you than me,” - a laugh rippled through the audience - “I love you, Arto. I’ll love you for as long as there is breath in my lungs.”

There was a rather loud sniffle from directly beside Geralt. He looked over to see Jaskier wiping frantically at his streaming eyes. 

“I love weddings,” he said, “Simply adore them.”

The officiant stepped forward then, smiling softly. 

“Very well put, you two. If there are no objections…”

The entire square held its breath. 

Silence. 

“By the power bestowed on me, in full view of all your friends and family, and by my presence the great goddess Melitele herself, I am proud to pronounce thee wed. Arturo, darling, you may kiss your lovely bride.”

The party went on late into the night, the stars shining bright above and the nearly full moon illuminating the market square. The candles burned low, but spirits were high. Drink flowed freely, and the food was both passably good and plentiful. The benches and arch had been cleared away to make room for dancing, and a platform for the performers. 

Jaskier had been thrilled to join the band of performers who’d been hired to play. They’d pulled him onto the low, makeshift stage when they saw the lute he carried, and the bard had feigned shyness briefly before letting loose. He happily showed off with complicated fingering and warbling vocals. He winked at the crowd, and duetted with the other musicians, matching his voice particularly well against a startlingly talented female vocalist. She was dark-haired and beautiful, and Geralt would have put money on her having some amount of siren blood. They made lovely harmonies together, Jaskier’s warm tenor mingling comfortably with her soprano, which rang clear and sweet as fresh spring water. Geralt swore he heard just a touch of reverb in the song, and though not one of the performers had a drum, a steady thrumming kept the beat. He couldn’t tell if it was Jaskier, or the woman.

The people danced, sang along to the more well-known songs, cheered and tossed coin onto the stage. Even Boris seemed to be enjoying himself. He’d shaken Arturo’s hand, which given everything that had transpired, Geralt supposed was the best outcome that could have been hoped for. The bride and groom had thanked both Geralt and Jaskier profusely, even promising to name their firstborn after the bard. 

It was a lively, joyful party. Geralt watched it with a drink in his hand, leaned against the wall of one of the buildings that faced into the square. One sentence occupied his thoughts, one phrase from Lainey’s vows that echoed over and over again in his mind. 

_“It would be a joy, and a privilege to grow old with you.”_

Privilege indeed. The Witcher wondered if they knew how lucky they really were. To grow old, to live a happy, simple, domestic life. Like real people. 

“Geralt!” Jaskier bounded towards him, sweat gleaming on his forehead and light in his eyes. 

Geralt nodded at the bard, “Bored already?” he asked.

“Bah! Just needed a break. Wouldn’t be a good look if my fingertips started bleeding in the middle of a solo,” he showed off his digits, which did look to be in poor condition, rough with half shredded calluses. 

“What did you think? I was fantastic, wasn’t I? Oh, Geralt, I’ve missed the stage,” he grinned, and leaned on the wall next to the Witcher. 

“Not bad,” was all Geralt could muster. There was so much more he wanted to say, so much more he didn’t know how to say. 

Jaskier laughed, “A glowing review! You have a way with words, has anyone ever told you that?”

Geralt laughed too, “Funnily enough, no.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Jaskier stared up at the night sky, and Geralt stared at the stars reflected in his eyes. 

“I see you’re making friends,” he said, nodding at the stage.

Jaskier grinned, “Everywhere I go. Nice to be among my people again, I must say.”

Geralt scowled, “Fae?” He’d assumed the dark-haired woman was not completely human, but the others? His hand went to his medallion, which hummed gently at the low frequency it maintained now, no spike to indicate an excess of magic in the air.

Jaskier snorted, _“Musicians,_ you paranoid old grump.”

“Oh.”

The band started to play something slow, something sweet and full of longing. The bride and groom swayed gently, pressed against each other, in the middle of the square. Most of the guests paired off, dancing similarly but leaving a wide berth around the happy couple. Jaskier looked at Geralt, and raised his eyebrows with a mischievous smile. 

“Geralt?” he asked.

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say!” Jaskier pouted. 

“I don’t dance.”

“Oh come on. Do you mean to tell me that dance lessons were not a part of your rigorous Witcher training?”

“Surprising, I know.”

“Ugh, awful. I must have words with whoever’s in charge of that place, set them straight. You know, learning to dance at court properly is an essential part of any young gentleman’s upbringing - Witcher or otherwise. I really am shocked, Geralt.” Jaskier shook his head, and sighed.

Geralt snorted at the mental image of Jaskier berating Vesemir for not teaching the wolves a proper waltz.

“I suppose the great burden falls to me then, to fill in the gaps in your education” Jaskier said, the mischievous smile creeping back. 

Geralt frowned, “I don’t dance, I told you.”

“Please?”

“No.”

Jaskier pouted, “You really won’t dance with me?” 

The Witcher really didn’t know how he could ever be expected to maintain any sort of resolve looking into those big blue eyes. 

“I’ll embarrass both of us,” Geralt protested, though he already knew he’d give in.

“We’ll stay right here,” Jaskier pushed off from the wall. He took the tankard from Geralt's hand, placing it on a nearby bench. The bard took both Geralt’s hands, leading him away from the wall, but remaining close enough that they still felt hidden - a private dance in a public place. He put one hand on the Witcher’s waist, leaving the other clasping his hand.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice quiet, subdued. Geralt nodded, barely, as he let his free hand settle gently, hesitantly on Jaskier’s shoulder. 

“That’s it,” the bard assured him, “And then we just sway a little, maybe turn every now and then. See? Easy. You’re doing wonderfully.”

That familiar warmth glowed in Geralt’s chest, hot and sweet and wonderful. It was changed, no longer putting a sickness in his gut. It was precious now, euphoric - something to be treasured and nurtured. It felt so bright now, so deliciously warm, that he was sure the bard must be able to feel it. Geralt hoped he knew he was the one who’d put it there.

As if confirming his thoughts, Jaskier leaned in and rested his head against Geralt’s shoulder, cheek pressed against his chest. Geralt let his arm curl around Jaskier’s shoulders, drawing him closer, holding him tighter. 

“I don’t think this counts as dancing,” Geralt murmured, “We’re barely moving.”

“Hmm,” Jaskier agreed, “It’s really just an excuse to be close to someone.”

“You want to be close to me?” 

“I thought that was obvious.”

“Jaskier -”

“I know, I know you don’t want to talk about it.”

But that was the frustrating thing. All day Geralt _had_ wanted to talk about. All day he’d sat in his saddle, taciturn and silent, searching the very depths of his mind for the words to describe how he felt. Nothing he’d come up with was good enough, nothing captured the bigness of it - the profoundness. So he said nothing, not for lack of trying, but for lack of skill. 

“I’m not a poet, like you. If I had half your talent, this would be easy,” he said, voice a low, gravely rumble. 

“I told you I’d wait, as long as it takes for you to be able to say it,” Jaskier assured him, “But I don’t need poetry. Just so you know.”

“I don’t want to wait,” Geralt said, “I don’t want this to be difficult. I want -” he sighed.

“What do you want?” Jaskier lifted his head to look at the Witcher, eyes half-lidded and bright. 

“I want -” Geralt took a deep breath, “I want you.”

It was simple, unromantic, and entirely too blunt.

Geralt had never seen the bard smile so brightly. 

He moved his hand from Jaskier’s shoulder to his face, knuckles ghosting along his cheek, his jaw. Geralt tilted Jaskier’s chin up, just slightly, and he leaned in. He paused with just a hair’s breadth of space between them, waiting - asking. Jaskier wasted no time giving his answer.

Their lips touched, gentle and hesitant at first, and time itself bowed to them. The stars in the sky applauded, and there was neither Witcher nor fae in attendance at the wedding. There was Geralt, and there was Jaskier, and as far as Geralt was concerned, that was all. As the intensity grew, all the pent up wanting and yearning escaped and was laid bare between them. All the almost-confessions, the too-gentle touches, the stolen glances, they were all released in that moment. It was a kiss, and it was a conversation. 

Geralt felt like he’d lived his entire life in a desert, and for the first time stood before the ocean. He held Jaskier close, as close as he could manage, drank him in, inhaled him. Bitter dandelion, and sweat, and woodsmoke, and honey-sweet mead. Jaskier clutched at the Witcher’s waist, the back of his neck, fingernails dragging over his scalp, all pretense of dancing long gone. 

Jaskier was breathless when they finally parted, lips red and wet. 

“Like real people do,” Geralt muttered, eyes fixed on those lovely, sweet lips. 

Jaskier almost laughed, and pressed his forehead against Geralt’s, “Better,” he said, “So much better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow look at Geralt growin a braincell I'm so proud of him.
> 
> This is a long one! I'm very pleased with how it came out, I loved getting to show off Jaskier being competent and clever with the talking, and I've been wanting to do a slow dance scene for ages now. I hope you all enjoyed reading it just as much as I enjoyed writing it! 
> 
> Much love to you all, thank you for reading 💛


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pillow talk.

Jaskier flopped back on the bed, loose-limbed and flushed all over. 

“Are you telling me,” he said, between short, quick puffs of breath, “That we could have been doing  _ that, _ this whole time?”

After the party had finally begun to wind down, Geralt and Jaskier had managed to procure a room in a nearby inn. It was a little cramped, but in a way that felt cozy rather than claustrophobic. There was a bed, only one, which neither had any complaints about, and a tub of hot water waited for whenever they tired of each others’ embrace. Geralt doubted it would see any use that night.

They’d begun just talking, but quickly their communication had turned physical. It felt as though they were inventing their own language, a secret language of touch that was only for the two of them to understand. Geralt had never been religious, but he imagined it was what worship felt like, prayer at the temple of their intertwined bodies. When Jaskier sang out, Geralt thought he’d never heard a more beautiful sound in his life. Except maybe when they laughed together - as the person occupying the room theirs shared a wall with very vocally objected to the level of noise, and wondered with great irritation whether they had any idea what time it was. 

“Not a clue!” Jaskier had shouted back, and leaned down for a kiss. It was slow, and deep enough to drown in. He pulled away and laughed against Geralt’s cheek - peppered him with little pecks scattered over his lips, his jaw, his neck, his chest. 

It wasn’t the perfect, unadulterated bliss that Geralt had imagined - not right away. There was a learning curve to it, knocked heads and cramped legs in the beginning, laughter. Geralt had never laughed during sex before. It wasn’t long, though, before something clicked - and they slotted together perfectly, two cogs turning in tandem. Jaskier was a quick study, and an even better teacher. Geralt, too, was eager to learn.

If Geralt was good at suffering in silence, he had once been a master of riding out his pleasures the same. No longer - the cries and moans Jaskier coaxed from him were desperate, hungry. The cries of a starved man, satisfied at long last. 

And Geralt was. He felt satisfied, content and incandescently happy in a way that almost made him uncomfortable in how good he felt. It was the feeling of having broken a rule, but one he’d be glad to keep breaking for the rest of his life. After all, how could a rule made to keep him from such joy possibly be just? Hadn’t he suffered enough? Didn’t he deserve this? 

Jaskier snuggled into his side, laying across his chest and hooking his leg around the Witcher’s. Geralt wrapped both arms around him, holding him tight.

“We’re both very foolish, aren’t we? I think the very sky could have opened up and told us what we both knew to be true, and we still would not have arrived here a moment sooner. But waiting,  _ waiting _ has made the fruit so much sweeter. Every touch promised with a glance and sigh that said ‘darling, there’s more to come.’ Being with you finally, properly - Geralt, it’s like exhaling,” he said, tracing patterns on Geralt’s bare skin, so gentle it almost tickled. Jaskier’s finger ran lightly over the scars that adorned his body - ones that were decades old, and the fresh, pink slashes from the basilisk. His touch felt reverent, as though he was handling something precious and beloved. 

“Are you writing me verses?” Geralt asked, amused. 

“Please,” Jaskier said, “When I’m composing, you’ll  _ know.  _ And make no mistake - I will. The ballads I’m going to write,” he sighed, “I’ve no shortage of inspiration now.”

“Is there anything at all I can say to convince you not to write songs about my -”

“Cocky, aren’t you! The thought that you could talk an artist out of his muse - the very thought of it. No chance, my love. I’ll sing the praises of your prowess until the end of my days,” Jaskier said. 

Geralt chuckled, “Serves me right, I suppose - getting caught up with one of you creative types.”

“Terribly foolish of you,” Jaskier agreed, “And here I thought Witchers were supposed to be clever.”

“Don’t know where you got that impression,” Geralt said.

Jaskier laughed, “Nor do I. And on that note,” he said, “How long did it take you to figure this out, anyway? To know that you wanted this?” he pressed a gentle kiss to Geralt’s collarbone. 

The answer to that wasn’t easy. His feelings had evolved, changed and grown before his very eyes. One bled into another without much clear division. There was the strange, unnamed affection that had gripped him from the very first moment, the heat in his belly that was at once terrible and wonderful, the lust and wanting that had gripped him and refused to let go, and the cottony-soft love that settled over him soon after. Layers, things that had been there just below the surface long before he’d figured out how to peel them back and search. 

“Took too long,” Geralt admitted, “But putting any thought into it was a waste of time, because you didn’t feel the same.”

“‘Didn’t feel the same’ - Geralt, I’d have jumped into bed with you that very first night, had you asked,” Jaskier said. He turned and looked up at the Witcher, his eyes fond and smile amused. 

“You could have asked,” Geralt pointed out. 

“I know,” Jaskier said. He traced lightly over the line of Geralt’s jaw with his middle finger, “I wanted  _ you _ to ask  _ me, _ though.” 

Jaskier rested his head on the Witcher’s chest, and let his eyes drift closed. His fingers still absently moved over the stubble at Geralt cheek, and they were quiet, drinking in the closeness without needing to fill the empty air. Another one of the bard’s highly purposeful silences - this one stretched an instant of blissful intimacy into a hundred. They lay like that for so long that Geralt thought Jaskier must have fallen asleep. The rhythm of his steady, deep breaths soothed him, and the Witcher had a wonderful feeling of security.  _ Mine, _ he thought,  _ He’s mine. _ Geralt felt safe with Jaskier in his arms, he felt warm to the very core of his being. 

“Do you want to know when I knew?” Jaskier asked eventually, his voice soft and eyes still closed.

“You just said,” Geralt was confused, “You said the first night.”

“Wanting to fuck you senseless isn’t that same as falling in love,” Jaskier said blinking and fixing his gaze on the little scar at Geralt’s hairline, “The former - definitely that first night, gods, Geralt - you should’ve seen yourself. All sweaty and brooding and saving my life.  _ Breathtaking. _ The latter though, the love bit came later.”

“Hmm?” 

“Hmm. I knew it was real - knew it was  _ more, _ when you bought my lute.” 

Geralt’s brow furrowed, “Then?” he was surprised. 

“Yes,” Jaskier laughed, “Because I was angry with you, and acting like a brat, and still you thought of me, of what would make me happy. If I’d been just the tiniest bit less stubborn, I’d have dropped to my knees and begged for reconciliation the instant you held it out to me. And then realizing that, I got even angrier with you for making me love you even though I wasn’t ready to be finished being angry yet.”

Geralt smiled, and began to run his fingers gently through the bard’s hair. 

“Really, it was very rude of you,” Jaskier said, smiling, and leaning into his touch. 

“How ever will I make amends?” the Witcher wondered.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Geralt could think of quite a lot of things, “You could buy me another present,” that hadn’t been one of them. 

“A present?” Geralt said, raising an eyebrow.

“Something pretty,” the bard insisted, “Or something that smells nice. I’m quite used to the finer things in life, roughing it has taken a terrible toll on me.”

“That so?” Geralt’s lip quirked to a half smile, “I doubt you’ll find much to pique your interest in this little backwater. Perhaps when we get to Oxenfurt,” he said. 

Jaskier frowned, “Oxenfurt. Now tell me why that name sounds familiar?” 

“There’s a school there,” Geralt said, “Perhaps you met an alumnus?”

“No,” the bard shook his head, “That’s not it. It must be, though, right? I’ve never been there certainly, this is the most time I’ve spent outside of my home at once in - ever. I couldn’t picture the look of it in my head. So why does it sound  _ so _ familiar?”

That hunch, always present in Geralt’s mind, tugged at his attention. Of late, he’d been rather preoccupied with his own inner turmoil - he hadn’t the time nor brain power to dedicate to investigating. In any case, if what he was reasonably certain of was true, it was best to let Jaskier come to those conclusions naturally on his own. Forcing him to confront it before he was ready would help nothing - the mind was a delicate thing. 

If Jaskier’s reaction was anything to go on, a trip to Oxenfurt may have been a better idea than Geralt’d first thought. He’d had the feeling for some time that the bard would have a great deal of fun in the university town, full to bursting as it was with curiosities and amusements, taverns full of drunk students to play to. If it was going to help him along in realizing certain truths about himself, all the better. 

“I suppose it’ll become clear when we get there, won’t it?” Jaskier said, his expression relaxing back to the gentle pleasure that Geralt far preferred to see on his features. 

“Hmm.”

“What’s it like?” he asked.

“Your sort of place,” Geralt said, “Loud, full of people."

“Doesn’t sound much up your alley. Dunno why, but you just don’t strike me as a people person,” Jaskier teased.

“More people means more opportunity for work,” Geralt said. He thumbed over the impossibly soft skin just behind the shell of Jaskier’s ear, fingers busying themselves with the short hair at his nape. 

“Ah, I understand completely now. Is it far?” he asked.

Geralt shrugged, “Depends what you think far is. If we go straight there, not too bad. If we keep stopping, it’ll be awhile.”

“Well, I’m quite curious about this mysterious place now. Perhaps we ought to go straight there?”

Geralt nodded, “If that’s what you’d like.” 

“I think so, yes,” Jaskier reached up, taking a strand of Geralt’s hair between his fingers and twirling it, “Have I ever told you how I adore your hair?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Well, then let me take this opportunity to correct such an erroneous omission of my affinity,” the bard propped himself up on his elbow and leaned forward, planting a quick little kiss on Geralt’s forehead, “You have very pretty hair.”

Geralt couldn’t help but smile. He used the advantageous position of his hand at the back of the bard’s head to pull him in for a proper kiss.

“Why do you keep it long?” Jaskier asked, “Surely short is more practical? Not that I’m complaining, mind you,” he gave a little tug on the strand between his fingers, the action accompanied by a mischievous quirk of his lips.

Geralt shrugged, “Looks weird when it’s short,” was the simple explanation he offered. 

“Bullshit,” Jaskier ran his fingers closer to the scalp, deliciously reminiscent of the time he’d washed Geralt’s hair in the river, “Look at this lovely texture, that wonderful bit of wave. I’d wager that were it cut short, you’d have quite curly hair.”

Geralt’s nose wrinkled, “Don’t go getting any ideas.”

“You really wouldn’t even consider it? I think you’d be dashing. Again, allow me to reiterate  _ \-  _ long hair is positively  _ godly _ on you. That said, were you ever in the market for a bit of a change, you know, mix things up a little, you’d pull it off quite well. Especially with yours truly ready and more than willing to style it for you,” Jaskier said.

“Not in the market,” Geralt said, “And I don’t like change. Guess it is getting a bit long, though. Due for a trim soon,” The ends were beginning to take on the unpleasant, straw-like texture of hair left to its own devices for a little too long - the texture that made it prone to matting when blood and dirt entered the equation. 

“Do you cut it yourself?” Jaskier asked. Geralt nodded. 

“I could do it,” he offered, and he seemed almost  _ shy, _ which, admittedly was a strange but not altogether unpleasant colour on the bard. Geralt cocked his head. Words like ‘cute’ did not belong in a Witcher’s vocabulary, and yet. 

“Or not, not is also fine,” Jaskier amended, mistaking his confusion. 

“I don’t... object to the idea - as long as you promise not to do anything ridiculous,” Geralt clarified, “But I don’t have any shears. They broke.”

“Another thing to add to the shopping list, then. We’ll get you looking all spiffy and tip-top yet, my love,” Jaskier smiled, “I’ll get the ends all tidy, we’ll have a real conversation about that old leather tie of yours - really, Geralt, there are better options - perhaps I’ll coax you into a braid or two. Back in the day I had a whole set of these lovely hair oils. Oh, I miss them so. I’d do the chamomile on you, I think. It would suit you, floral but not too sweet. Nice and gentle on that nose of yours,” - Jaskier tapped the tip of Geralt’s nose lightly with his first finger - “Do you suppose I’ll find anything like that in Oxenfurt? That’d make a lovely gift. Just so you know. Perhaps a trip to a tailor as well, some lovely silks. I imagine it'd be just as much fun to dress you up as strip you down,” - a cheeky little trail of kisses over his collarbone and shoulder. 

“All I’ve consented to is a haircut, Jaskier,” though Geralt shook his head, he couldn’t shake the little smile from his lips. 

“I am getting a bit ahead of myself, aren’t I?,” he patted Geralt’s chest, “Ah well. We’ll get there, we’ve got plenty of time.”

“Don’t hold your breath,” Geralt said.

“Plenty of time,” Jaskier repeated, and he sighed, content, as he settled in against Geralt’s chest again. He hummed, a tune that was soft and slow and sweet. Geralt’s fingers continued to work over his scalp, threading through the soft longer hair at the top of his head. 

“You’re so good at that,” Jaskier said, “You’ll put me straight to sleep.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hummed, “It’s late.”

“Don’t ever want tonight to end,” Jaskier said, but he sounded exhausted. His voice was cracked and fried, both from the late hour and the vigour of his earlier performance. He snuggled further down into the crook of Geralt’s arm. The Witcher tugged the bed’s light sheet over them.

“Rest,” Geralt encouraged him, “I’ve got you.”

“I know,” the bard yawned, “Will you keep me?”

“I will.”

“Good.”

He hummed on a few minutes longer, but soon his breathing evened out as he fell into a deep slumber. Not long after that, Geralt followed, a smile on his face as unconsciousness carried him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Projecting onto fictional characters as a coping mechanism, but not as in my mental illness, as in my frustration with the increasingly nasty split ends i've got going on and the fact that a haircut is still a good month or two out of reach. 
> 
> Thank you as always for reading 💛 You all keep my heart warm and happy.


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Changes.

A fear that Geralt had carried into the bedsheets of that little inn was a fear of change. 

He and Jaskier had, as far as he was concerned, a very nice rhythm and cadence between them. They moved together naturally - give and take and push and pull. Cogs, made to slot exactly into each other. That was before sex even entered the equation. When they bathed in streams, Jaskier washed Geralt’s hair without waiting for prompting, or asking for permission. When Geralt was hurt, Jaskier bandaged him. When Geralt became frustrated or taciturn, Jaskier soothed him with sweet melodies and kind words, jokes and diversions that smoothed the hard lines of his face and chased the foul thoughts away. In turn, when Jaskier grew hungry and tired, Geralt found sheltered patches of earth covered in soft pine needles for him to rest on, and set to hunting dinner before the bard even had time to complain. When Jaskier struggled with his composing, Geralt offered his ear and input. And when Jaskier whimpered and called out in the night, Geralt pulled him close and hid him away where the nightmares held no sway. 

There was more physical affection now - or perhaps more accurately, the physical affection between them was no longer trenched in uncertainty. It was purposeful, with no excuse required or given besides,  _ I want to touch you, because I care for you. _ No longer did Geralt’s mind race in the tiny spaces between the two of them, searching for any logical reason besides wanting to close those gaps. No longer did he resort to shoving, and elbows, and clapped shoulders. Jaskier had never completely hidden those impulses behind reason, though after they laid together, a metaphorical sort of floodgate did seem to open. Geralt understood now just how restrained Jaskier had been.

Other than that, though, Geralt’s fear of change was utterly unfounded. 

Perhaps that should have made him feel quite silly, seeing how little their relationship actually changed when they came to understand that it ran deeper than friendship. He should have seen it far earlier, it should’ve been obvious. 

But how was a Witcher meant to know what a relationship looked like? How was a Witcher meant to know the shape of romance, the flavour of it and all the subtle ways that it differed from friendship, when he was not made for either?

A Witcher was taken from his family, snatched out from under any example a loving set of parents might provide. He was raised in a keep, sheltered away from a community that might teach him to love and be loved. Familial love certainly was understood - Geralt loved his brothers, his surrogate father, but this? This was a different animal altogether. 

“You have to learn compassion for yourself, just as you’ve extended it to me. I hold no grudge, you mustn't cling to one on my behalf,” Jaskier had told him one night, as they lay together next to a dying fire. 

The dying fire, over the time they’d travelled, had become their own sort of private temple. A place to confess sins and ask for favour, or simply to give thanks. There was something about it, the surreal quality of the low, subdued light, the orange cast against the violet twilight sky that made words flow more freely from Geralt’s lips than they ever could in the light of day. He felt hidden, perhaps. Less vulnerable. It was easier to say what burdened him in the shade of near darkness. 

He’d just finished bemoaning his own foolishness, telling Jaskier he deserved a better man than one who couldn’t even be trusted to recognize the feelings that swirled in his own head. 

Jaskier wouldn’t hear of it, not even for a second. 

“We’re both flawed. I, for one, refuse to repent for the ways in which I am imperfect, and I therefore refuse to accept repentance from you. You’re a terribly foolish man with little emotional awareness and worse communication skills. This is true. I’m an erratic manipulator with a penchant for running my mouth at the exact wrong time. This is also true. You knew exactly what and who I was, and you put your ultimate trust in me - gave me your life to hold in my terrible little hands. I knew exactly what and who you were, and fell in love with you all the same. Not in  _ spite _ of all that, but because of it. If you didn’t grunt at me and get all sweet and confused when I run my fingers through your hair, you wouldn’t be you,” Jaskier said. He hugged Geralt’s arms tighter around himself, running his fingers lightly up and down the length of his forearm. 

“Still deserve more,” Geralt muttered, but snuggled his face in against the bard’s sweet-smelling hair. He’d come to dread the moment Jaskier would acquire the fancy oils and perfumes he desired - the moment he’d stop smelling so unmistakably  _ Jaskier. _ There could be no greater crime than to mask the lovely dandelion milk scent that leaked from his every pore. 

“I don’t care what I deserve except where clothes and jewels are concerned,” Jaskier sniffed, “I’ve chosen  _ you. _ I care for you more than I’ve ever thought possible to care for another person. I see you, I want you. Flaws and all. I told you once, if you thought that was all it would take to get rid of me, Witcher, you are sorely mistaken.”

There were no words that Geralt could give back to him that would properly encapsulate the depth of his affection, that could possibly convey just what the bard meant to him. He tried anyway. 

“I’m awake,” he said, “You woke me up as much as I did you.”

“Well,” Jaskier said, “One good turn deserves another, doesn’t it? And my people take life debts very seriously.”

He turned in the Witcher’s arms so that they were face to face, kissed him slow and gentle and sweet. 

“If the debt is fulfilled,” Geralt said, a frown creasing his brow, “Don’t you want to go home?”

Jaskier smiled, and ran his finger down the bridge of Geralt’s nose, “I have.”

So maybe there was a degree of openness that came with the territory, the knowledge that his feelings no longer needed to be doubted and quelled for the sake of pride or anxiety. There was the feeling of being known. Terrifying as it had been to submit to, the rewards that came in the form of unapologetically fond looks and heated touch were far and away worth it. Loving Jaskier had never been scary - it was natural as breathing. Letting himself be loved, though? That had taken some work, and he was certain would take more still. 

It was good work, work that Geralt committed to as readily as any contract placed before him. 

So, little changed. But what did was subtle enough, gentle enough that Geralt didn’t mind. And they were welcome changes that he hadn’t known he’d needed, but could never go back from. 

As to the matter of that pesky hunch, Geralt no longer felt honest in calling it a hunch. It was all but known, and the closer they grew to Oxenfurt, the stronger he became in his resolve. 

He wanted desperately to share his discovery with Jaskier, but the delicate, sensitive matter of it kept his tongue. It was going to be difficult to navigate as it was, Geralt didn’t need to go and break his bard’s mind while he was trying to heal it. 

That didn’t mean he couldn’t try to encourage certain revelations, guide him to the truth of things as much as was safe. 

“What was it like growing up as a child in the fae courts?” Geralt asked one day as they travelled. Jaskier had grown steadily more pensive as the day had progressed, lapsing into silences that felt different, and far less purposeful than his previous ones. That was what had let Geralt know something was off. Jaskier was not quiet unless he had good reason for it. His deadly silent treatments, his lingering moments of tenderness, his appeasement of Geralt’s tumultuous moods. These were, in the bard’s mind, good reasons to shut up. 

Now, two days’ journey out from Oxenfurt, Jaskier’s voice dropped off in the middle of a song. His brow was quizzical - no - distressed. He’d stayed like that maybe an hour, just quiet and confused and upset. 

“What?”

“Growing up in the fae courts. I’m curious. You must have been the scourge of the Feywild, making mischief at every turn. What was it like?”

“I- I must’ve been,” Jaskier said faintly, “It was a very long time ago, Geralt - the details become muddled after so many years. You must understand. I don’t- I don’t remember.”

Geralt quirked a brow, “I suppose. What of your studies, then? You’ve told me literacy did not come easily, did you go to school, or were you tutored privately?” He kept his voice light, politely interested but not overly pressing. 

Jaskier was quiet a moment before replying, “You’re awfully talkative today, Geralt. Are you sure you’re feeling alright? Didn’t hit your head in that drowner fight the other day?”

Geralt shrugged, “I want to know everything about you.”

“You do,” Jaskier answered, too quickly. 

Jaskier’s mood from then on seemed to correlate directly to their proximity to Oxenfurt. He grew sullen, with a scowl to rival the Witcher’s as they advanced on the college town. Geralt would catch him muttering to himself, Witcher senses giving the bard no place to hide. 

“I’ve been here before,  _ why _ was I here?  _ When? _ It’s all so familiar,” and the like. Jaskier would let his hands brush over landmarks, oddly shaped trees and wayfinding signs, well worn with age. There was a sadness to his eyes sometimes that chased away the anger and confusion, a despair that compelled Geralt to hold him a little closer, let him rest a little more often. 

“Here,” they were only a couple hours away, they’d reach the city by nightfall. Jaskier had barely said a word the whole day, and the glassiness of his eyes threatened to drive Geralt to madness. The Witcher had insisted they take one last break before the final push to Oxenfurt, where they’d find a comfortable inn and respite for the night. The sun hung low and hot in the sky, summer breathing her first warm sighs over the land, scattering fluffy dandelion seeds throughout the air and carrying the scent of sweet thistle. 

Geralt opened his hand to offer Jaskier the tiny, sun-warmed wild strawberries. The little fruits looked like precious jewels, bright and shiny. Jaskier smiled, soft, and popped one into his mouth. He moaned with pleasure at the flavour, and Geralt smiled. His documentation of the bard’s sweet tooth had not gone to waste. 

“Oh Geralt,” he said, “This is wonderful. Thank you.”

In tandem, both the Witcher and the bard’s smiles fell, as they realized what words had just slipped from Jaskier’s mouth.

As a general rule, the fae considered the verbalization of thanks to be incredibly rude. Gratitude was to be expressed in action, for one to simply say “thank you” and think that that absolved them of any obligation to repay the favour or gift was an insult. It was something Geralt had been quite careful to be observant of, he’d checked himself every time the impulse to thank Jaskier for any little kindness had arisen. In the same vein, he’d never once wanted for the bard’s thanks, instead reading it in his actions. 

And now, Jaskier had thanked him. 

He scowled, “I don’t know what came over me,” he said. A second later his expression smoothed, and he pressed a chaste kiss to Geralt’s cheek. 

“A kiss, in exchange for a berry?” he asked, smiling fondly. Still, something behind Jaskier’s eyes spoke to panic. 

Geralt shook his head, “I was only paying you back for all those damned leaves.”

It was twilight by the time they reached the city proper, making it in the gates just before they closed for the night. 

If the woods outside Oxenfurt had caused Jaskier distress, being inside the city walls made him positively manic. 

His voice was strained as he rattled on, tight and high with anxiety. 

“You were right, I think, Geralt! This seems a lovely town, much bigger than any we’ve been to, and I find that suits me very well! There’ll be so much to do, of course we ought to retire for the night and see to the festivities in the morning, I imagine much of the city will be closed up by this point in the evening. Then again, I recall you saying there’s a school here? Well, if that’s the case perhaps the nightlife is worth exploring - what do you say? I know you’re not much for a crowd, or a loud noise, or - fun. Still! Could be an alright time, don’t you think? I think. Now, that’s interesting, is that -” his voice cut out, so abrupt that Geralt turned in his saddle to ensure he hadn’t been stolen away. 

He hadn’t. Jaskier was staring dumbfounded and open-mouthed at a blonde young woman a few feet away. She was walking with some friends, all were students by their heavy-looking satchels and easy laughter. 

“Essi?” he whispered, so quietly that Geralt was certain he wasn’t supposed to hear. 

“Jaskier-” but the bard was already gone. 

“Fuck,” Geralt dismounted Roach, taking her by the lead and following Jaskier. 

He approached the girls, face breaking into a smile as he neared them. 

“Essi!” he said, louder now, trying to get the blonde’s attention, “Essi, it’s me!”

The girl turned, brushing the fringe away from her caramel-coloured eyes. 

Jaskier stopped dead, as though he’d hit some magical barrier that froze him in place. 

“I thought- I thought you were someone else. I’m sorry,” he said, bowing to the girls, as was the custom.

“Not at all, sir,” she said, and with a chorus of giggling curtsies the whole lot of them were off. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said. He put his hand on the bard’s shoulder to steady him - he looked as if he was about to keel over right there in the middle of the street.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered back. 

“Who’s Essi?”

“Isn’t that the funniest thing?” a single hot tear tracked down his cheek, “I can’t remember.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What's that up at the top? Did I finally add an estimated chapter count? Yes! Wild concept, I know. Anyway. Three chapters to go, we're almost finished with this silly little story. For transparency's sake, I'll let you guys know that chapter 20 is going to be the last main story chapter, 21 will be the epilogue, and 22 is a surprise! Might be a lil bonus content type fun I've been working on, who knows ;)
> 
> Thank you so much for reading. All the love 💛
> 
> (for those unfamiliar, Essi is a character from the books who was something of a sister to Jaskier - her defining physical characteristics being her blonde hair and blue eyes)


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Remembering.

Jaskier took a shuddering breath, and fell. His long legs folded beneath him, and he slumped into Geralt’s side, a pained whimper tearing from his lips. The silver Witcher’s medallion hummed angrily in protest, and the static pressure of magic seemed to compound - it weighed heavy and claustrophobic in the fresh, cool, twilight air. 

Geralt scrambled to support him, hands flying over his body, grabbing and touching wherever he could, trying to keep him upright and desperate for some way to help. Jaskier had his hands held tightly against either side of his head, heels of his palms pressed into his temples. His eyes, when he opened them -  _ glowed, _ washing his contorted, beautiful features in blue light. 

“Geralt,” his voice was small and pleading, weak. Everything it ought not to be, and the wrongness of it resounded in Geralt’s skull, chilling him. 

“I’m here,” he propped Jaskier up, pulling the bard’s arm around his shoulders, keeping him on his feet but only just, “Come, get up onto Roach.” His only thought was to get Jaskier out of the middle of the street, out of the open. They had to get somewhere private and secure, somewhere Geralt could keep him safe. He half dragged the bard to Roach, helped him mount her, and showed him where to put his hands. 

Jaskier was malleable as river clay in his hands, easily moved about at Geralt’s will. He slumped immediately onto the mare’s neck, and she gave an irritated little toss of her head. 

“Must really be fucked,” Jaskier muttered against her mane, “If you’re letting me ride Roach.”

Geralt huffed a strained laugh, “Don’t get used to it. C’mon,” he urged the mare forth, one hand reached back and clamped in Jaskier’s hard, desperate grip. His eyes searched - where in a crowded city could he take him? Where would be safe, where would be quiet? 

The University of Oxenfurt was a collection of very old, very smart-looking buildings that sat segregated from the city proper on a small island all it’s own. It was connected to the mainland by a stone bridge, and surrounded by a wall structure, giving it an appearance not wholly unlike a fortress. 

The water that surrounded it on all sides reflected the deep blue and violet sky, shimmering and twinkling as the dying light caught the little piques made by the motion of the water, and the gentle breeze that meandered through. The school itself was aglow - torches adorned the stone walls, large iron braziers lighting the streets between them. 

Surely, on an early summer’s eve, this late, the campus would be near enough deserted. It wasn’t far.

“Let’s go.”

The building they stopped at was a lecture hall, the Faculty of Trouvereship and Poetry. Perhaps it was good instinct that led them there, perhaps destiny, perhaps common sense on Geralt’s part. Perhaps it was the fact that as they passed, Jaskier perked. He raised his head, glowing eyes fixed on the structure. It was made from sturdy red brick and wide expanses of off-white stone. Ivy grew over it, the vines lush with verdant leaves curling snuggly around the intricate columns and dripping from pediments and arches. Stained glass windows adorned the front, depicting pivotal scenes of legendary battles in their vibrantly coloured, geometric style.

“Important,” Jaskier muttered, the confused sound half muffled against the mouthful of horsehair he was spitting out. 

“Hmm.” Geralt helped Jaskier down from the saddle, looping Roach’s reins haphazardly over a section of fencing. It wasn’t ideal, but there were slightly more pressing matters at hand. 

Not least concerning of which was the fine trickle of blood creeping from Jaskier’s ear, down his neck, staining his shirt. 

“Hurts,” he groaned, and his legs buckled under him as soon his feet touched the ground. 

“Fuck,” Geralt hoisted the bard over his shoulder. He felt warm all over, feverish. He could feel the uneven, disjointed rhythm of his breathing, the rapid flutter of his terrified heart. Fear and sweat and magic fought for the right to be the one to overwhelm his senses most thoroughly.

“Fuck,” Jaskier parroted back, “Geralt? Is it bright in here?” he asked, as Geralt pushed into the empty hall. 

“No,” the Witcher said, and laid him down on the first bench he set eyes on, taking care to be gentle. It was quite dark in fact. The room was cavernous, row upon row of desks all pointed toward a wide blackboard at one end, opposite the windows. The stained glass threw colourful, abstract patches of light over the floor, and it smelled of parchment, old books, ink, and sweet rosewood.

“Ah, I thought so. Excellent news then, Geralt. I am hallucinating,” he said, a hint of cheer in his voice. Geralt took Jaskier’s hand in both of his, squeezing tight.

“What do you see?” he asked.  _ What do you remember? _

“People, lots of them, and - oh! Isn’t that funny? I’m here too,” he smiled, staring blankly at the blackboard at the head of the room, “Are there two of me, then? That sounds like an awful lot of work, one of me is enough, wouldn’t you say, Geralt? I’m a handful, a rascal, even. Then again, you might quite like two of me - a mouth to kiss you and another to -”

“Focus.”

“I’m young, even by human standards. Too young, far too young to -” his words were cut off with a groan, and the blood at his ear was twined by a stream trickling from his nose, “I don’t want to- it hurts too badly,” he whined. 

“Please,” Geralt said, he brushed his hand over Jaskier’s sweat-slick forehead, “I’m asking you. Please try. For me.”

“I’d do anything for you,” Jaskier smiled, “but I can’t -”

“You can,” Geralt interrupted him firmly, “You can. What is the other you doing?”

“Teaching,” Jaskier’s brow furrowed, “Teaching? Can you imagine that? I was a terrible student, spent my days fucking around, chasing skirts, getting drunk,” he smiled fondly, “And still graduated at the top of my class. Isn’t that just like me, Geralt?”

Geralt nodded, though whether Jaskier could actually see him, he didn’t know. 

“I’m- it’s all gone now,” Jaskier said, scowling, “I’m somewhere else. Oh - how lovely, Geralt did you know that it’s my birthday?”

“I’ll buy you a present,” Geralt promised, “Keep going.”

“I’m at my parents’ estate. I had parents - I was a- a noble, something. A royal pain in the ass. Sisters. A brother. Friends, fair weather, mostly. Where are they? Why can’t I remember their faces? What happened to them? We don’t - my people don’t die so easily, there must’ve been an attack if they’re all gone. Was there? Geralt, why can’t I remember?” Tears flowed freely now, old loss made new and fresh, carving open wounds he hadn’t even been able to see. 

“No,” Geralt said, “No attack that I’m aware of.”

“Oh. I have to find them, then. Will you help me?” he asked, turning his bright gaze on Geralt. 

“If you… try to remember more, it might be easier,” Geralt replied carefully, “How are you spending your birthday?”

“Alone,” he laughed, “First and last time that's ever happened. Hate being alone, can’t stand it. Wait - oh good! Company,” he smiled, “She’s lovely, isn’t she? Oh, please don’t be jealous Geralt, you’re still my favourite,” he patted Geralt’s hand, though continued to grin stupidly at the phantom woman in his head. 

Geralt rolled his eyes, “Is she saying anything?”

Jaskier nodded, “She’s telling me -” his voice cut off with a choked sound, a cough that spattered blood on Geralt’s chest. 

“What?”

“It’s just a hallucination, it’s not real. It can’t be real,” he shook his head, wiping his sleeve across his bloody face, and his breathing became more laboured. Jaskier began to curl in on himself, head thrown back and legs drawn in, as if the pain in his head was radiating out all over his body. Tremors rocked through him. 

Geralt’s teeth ground together. What could he do? How could he help? His fingers itched for the comforting weight of his blade, for something to  _ kill, _ and make this stop. 

There was nothing.

There was Jaskier,  _ his _ Jaskier lying in front of him, prone and in agony on the one battlefield that Geralt was helpless to rescue him from. It turned his stomach, anxiety shooting through him like pikes. He was afraid. Terrified and powerless, he held to Jaskier’s hand more tightly still, knuckles going white. 

“Please, Jaskier,” he hated the shake of his traitorous voice.

“She liked my singing,” the bard choked on the words, “She’d never heard a human, a  _ human _ who sang like me. I’m not human. I’m not human, am I?”

“No,” Geralt confirmed. 

“Was I? Geralt, what the  _ fuck _ happened to me?” he sobbed, gasped, spasmed with the pain that wreaked havoc over his body and mind.

Geralt pressed a kiss to his forehead, to his cheek, to the edge of his mouth, tasted the metallic tang of the blood there, “Tell me,” he said, “What did she do?”

He seemed to calm, to still, and for an agonizing moment, Geralt thought the worst. 

“I wasn’t always this,” he said, quiet. Defeated. 

“I wasn’t always this. I was… something real. Can you imagine if you’d met me then? You wouldn’t have, for one thing. I would have died long before you were born. But we’d have been so happy, two people -  _ real _ people. We could’ve had such a happy life together, had a little cottage by the coast. I’d have introduced you to my parents, and they wouldn’t have approved and I wouldn’t have cared. I could’ve given you a tour of this place, we’d have gone for a drink - met my friends, my - my Essi. Priscilla. Gods, they’re - they’re all dead, aren’t they? Humans live such short lives.  _ I _ would have too, except she wanted to keep me, said I’d be hers forever. 

“I can imagine it, if we’d met then. You, sitting in the corner of some tavern, brooding away. And I’d have none of it, your sour moods and grumpy face. I’d stick myself to you straight away, even without a debt to bind us. I’d introduce myself, but not as Jaskier, of the Spring Court, Viscount of the Twilight and favoured bard of the Countess. I’d -”

A wind picked up, despite all the closed windows. It swirled around the two of them, rustling papers and kicking up dust. A vortex of magic wind, Geralt and Jaskier in the eye. Jaskier laughed, and then his expression smoothed.

“I’d say, ‘Hello, I’m Julian.’”

The second the name fell from his lips, the wind halted, and the pressure in the room changed so sharply and rapidly that Geralt’s ears popped. Just like that, it was an ordinary summer evening again, warm and peaceful and near silent in the big, empty lecture hall. It was utterly mundane, not a trace of magic left. The light in Jaskier’s eyes faded back to normal, and he blinked at the dark, finally seeing. His eyes locked onto Geralt’s, and in an instant they were holding each other. 

“Are you alright?” the Witcher asked, inhaling deeply against Jaskier’s neck. 

He felt the bard nod, “I am now, I think. I was  _ human, _ Geralt. Can you believe it?”

Geralt remained still, but hummed, his chest rumbling. 

“Geralt?” 

“Hmm?”

“Your silly necklace stopped shouting at me.”

Geralt pulled away to look at Jaskier, a wide smile across his face, “I’m proud of you,” he said, “Memory charms are very strong magic, you did well.”

“That was why - oh,” his face fell, just a little. Disappointment coloured his pretty face. 

“What did you think it was?” Geralt inquired, cocking his head slightly. 

“Well, I thought the reason I always set it off was just -  _ me, _ you know? My non-human-ness. So when it stopped, I thought -”

“You thought you’d become human again,” Geralt finished, and shook his head, “That sort of magic can’t be undone, I’m afraid.”

“Oh,” Jaskier said, “Right, well, that makes sense, I suppose. Still - imagine if it had? We could - we could just  _ be.” _

Geralt shook his head again, “Wouldn’t want that,” he said, “Not ready to settle down just yet.”

Jaskier smiled, soft and sweet, and leaned forward to rest his forehead against Geralt’s.

“Well,” he said, “Good. I’ve always thought the quiet life was highly overrated anyway. Maybe someday, though?”

Geralt nodded, “Maybe someday.”

They stayed in Oxenfurt a week, spending the last of their coin on a nice inn, good meals and wine, and a small horde of fascinating trinkets that caught Jaskier’s eye. He was drawn to them like a crow - uncannily able to scent out an interesting little bauble from a pile of junk. 

There were the perfumes, fancy hair oils and bath salts that Geralt was not terribly fond of - except for in the way that they made Jaskier’s face light up with pleasure. Nearly every scent one could imagine was to be had in the market - the bard took an hour selecting his favourites, and in the end left with four sets. Chamomile for Geralt, and lavender, verbena, and orange blossom to perfume himself with. 

A shiny new pair of shears found their way to Jaskier’s new embroidered leather satchel, as well as notebooks, quills, inks in a rainbow of colours, and a book of folk songs to learn. 

Geralt had to pull him away from a music shop, because while Roach was strong - she was not quite sturdy enough to carry around a massive harp in addition to their traveling gear. He did allow the bard to indulge a little, for he permitted the acquisition of a smaller, but in his own mind much more impressive instrument than the bulky harp. 

It was called a  _ symphonia, _ the clerk had told them. It was a sort of wooden box, with keys, and a crank to turn. The sound was somewhere between a violin and a set of bagpipes. Geralt, having always held a secret fondness for the pipes, was too fascinated by the droning thing to leave it behind, and Jaskier was delighted to have a new toy to add to his collection. 

He found performers in the streets of the college town to match his talent against, and drew crowds easily, making friends and fitting in remarkably well. Geralt was pleased to watch Jaskier flourish, it filled his heart with a sort of warmth that made him perhaps more suggestible that he’d have otherwise been. So, if he found himself dancing in the streets, hand in hand with his bard, indulging in more luxury than was strictly necessary, and delaying their departure - well, that wasn’t really his fault at all, was it?

There were bad days, too. Days where the reality of everything his life had been, would have been, would never be, crushed Jaskier and pinned him to the bed. He wept silently, sobbed his anguish, stared straight ahead and said nothing. On those days, Geralt curled around him, holding him tightly and riding out the shock of it with him until he was ready to rise, find some flight of fancy to amuse and soothe him. 

When the money finally ran out, they left Oxenfurt and set out into the wilderness of Redania once more. There would always be more contracts to take in the small coastal towns, kind farmers willing to allow them respite in a warm hayloft, adventures to have and memories to forge. 

Their first day out, they were attacked by drowners in the night. Magic and sword and song ensured that harm came to neither Geralt nor Jaskier, and they stood breathing heavily, surrounded by the departed beasts. 

“You know,” Jaskier said, grinning, “Traveling with you, Witcher, is really quite dangerous. Maybe I ought to go back to court after all.”

Geralt laughed. He sheathed his sword, and swept Jaskier up the way grooms held their new brides.

“Bullshit,” he said with a smile, “You’re not going anywhere.”

Jaskier’s grin widened even further, “Praise the gods! He’s finally figured it out.” The bard put his hand to Geralt’s jaw, and drew him in for a deep, heated kiss that warmed him to the core. 

“I love you, Geralt of Rivia,” he said, only barely breaking away from the kiss to speak the lovely words. 

“I love you, Julian, Buttercup, Dandelion,  _ Jaskier.” _

They were not real people, and lives unlived dogged their every thought and filled their heads with anxieties, a longing for what could never be that would never quite fade. But when they were together, when they held each other, they both found that the thoughts were far away and unable to touch them. For if they had been plain humans, the threads of their lives never would have interwoven, and both felt quite sure they’d have been far worse off for it. 

When they were together, it didn’t matter if they were real people, fae and Witcher, bard and hunter, it made no difference. They were Geralt and Jaskier, and that was that. 

Eternity stretched before them, and hand in hand, they were ready to face whatever it might hold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The End :,) 
> 
> Writing this has been such a wonderful journey, I've loved doing it, and I want to thank you all for your support along the way. 
> 
> Epilogue and Bonus Chapter to follow later this week, stay tuned :) 💛


	21. Epilogue (Happily Ever After)

Years passed, and the love between Geralt and Jaskier, the Witcher and his bard, did not wane. 

Their adventures were many. Along the coast, there were sea-monsters and fishermen grumpy enough to give Geralt a run for his money. In Posada, there was a sylvan, a rag-tag band of elves, a life or death negotiation, and a song that would go on to change their lives forever.

After, there was travel, and Jaskier and Geralt both found fame in the bard’s newest composition. A promise, finally fulfilled. Not a word of it was true, of course, but the Witcher took it in stride. He understood. It was a story, it made people feel good - and more importantly, made sure he got paid fairly and without hassle. Principals did not put food in his belly, the embellishments of a creatively inclined bard, however, did. 

When Jaskier sang the song, whether in a banquet hall or a cramped tavern, all present would fall silent to listen to his captivating, hypnotic voice as it echoed eerily and beautifully, harmonizing and sweet. The lute, and a great deal more instruments which were puzzlingly absent made perfect accompaniment. 

Geralt had raised his eyebrows in surprise when he’d first played it for him, because the tune was familiar. It was the same one Jaskier had been humming since they’d met. The bard flushed a little, and admitted that he'd had the melody for decades, but had been saving it for something special. 

“I needed the right person to inspire lyrics for it,” he’d said, “I suppose that’s you, Geralt.”

He hadn’t gotten further in his explanation, because his lips were very suddenly, and happily occupied. 

There was a rather eventful wedding banquette that was not theirs, and a great many years later, one that was. There was a run in with a djinn, an even scarier run in with a witch, a dragon hunt, and a long vacation to the coast. Their little traveling party grew to include the aforementioned witch - Yennefer - and Geralt’s rascal of a child surprise - Ciri. In each other, they found family. 

Kingdoms rose and fell around them, political plots were unravelled and woven in equal measure. Sometimes they were involved, and sometimes Geralt’s staunch insistence on neutrality won out. 

Summers were spent on the road, for the most part. Geralt and Jaskier both had hearts full of wanderlust, and the Witcher was always seeking work to do, coin to line his pocket with. Coin to buy his lover all the sweets and fine clothes he desired. And Jaskier would kiss him senseless and tell him that the only gift he could ever want for was already in his arms, but tuck the boiled sweets into the pocket of his new doublet anyway.  Jaskier loved to spoil his Witcher just as much, funding Geralt’s growing armoury with the money earned from his many, many successful ballads. 

They’d take a month at the season’s peak to tour around festivals and fairs, so that Jaskier might shine his ego in as many bard contests as his heart desired. He won nearly every time, naturally, and was unabashed in claiming a congratulatory fuck from Geralt as a post-performance ritual. 

Winters were cozy, comfortable affairs spent in Kaer Morhen. Geralt, Jaskier, Yennefer, Ciri, Eskel, Lambert, Coën, and Vesemir, all together. Another sorceress, and very dear friend of Yennefer’s - Triss Merigold - would join them on occasion as well. The violet-eyed mage found her seat very comfortably in Triss’ lap, and the family felt whole. 

Days were spent relaxing - or in Ciri’s case, studying - by a roaring fire. Sometimes Jaskier would play soft, sweet melodies. Sometimes he was content to curl up with Geralt and doze peacefully. A far cry from the restless, fitful sleep that had once plagued him. It was one of the Witcher’s favourite sights, to see his lover relaxed and utterly tranquil. 

Geralt’s brothers teased him, as brothers do. They made kissy faces and lewd hand gestures at him and Jaskier when they sat together, held hands, were caught in disused hallways. It was taunting he easily returned when he saw how the other Witchers doted on his child surprise. 

Years stretched into decades, which became centuries. Tragedy befell them, as it always would, but it was always overshadowed by joy. Geralt’s life, once passed in a dull approximation of contentment and marked sporadically by brief periods of fleeting happiness, transformed to something that could only be called beautiful. 

Years stretched into decades, which became centuries, and the world changed. Things once possible only by magic became mundane. The beasts Geralt had spent his early years hunting grew so rare that to kill one would have made him more monstrous than the creatures themselves. He tried a few different things, but ultimately turned to conservation - protection of the wild and her children. 

Jaskier, with great joy, realized that owing both to his magic and great skill his fame would not wane with the changing tastes. A faked accident every few decades meant that he never had to step out of the spotlight that he so adored for very long. And Yen took such pleasure in forging plane crashes. Sometimes he was Jaskier, and sometimes he was Dandelion, and sometimes he was Buttercup. Sometimes, he was Julian. 

Rumours would crop up every so often, an [online post](https://drive.google.com/file/d/13M0q5RAHWTtCk45cMtuLhLgKgeC8vpAH/view?usp=sharing) that looked an awful lot like an old photograph that was suspiciously similar to a painted portrait from the middle ages. They were easily denounced. People didn’t want to believe in magic anymore, and were quick and grateful to assign the word “coincidence” to anything which they couldn’t understand. 

Yes, the world changed. The Witcher hunted monsters no longer, the bard enjoyed global fame, the witch practiced her magic in secret places, and with guidance from all three, the child surprise became a lovely, powerful young woman. 

What did not change was this; there was a bog, and a ring of dandelion flowers, and a lute, and a song, and sword, and a basilisk, and a school, and too many battles to count. 

There was a mutant and a fae. A Witcher and a bard. A hunter and a poet. A conservationist and a musician. 

There was Geralt, and there was Jaskier. They had and would live forever, or close enough. They could never be real people, and as years passed, the longing faded. 

In the violet twilight that found them in a cramped city apartment the same as it had found them in that bog so many years ago, they kissed. They kissed with an animal passion and heat that would put the very sun to shame. They kissed, and there was nothing more real. They kissed, and then, and then, and  _ then.  _ Jaskier would comb his nimble fingers through Geralt’s snowy hair, and whisper -

“Just like real people do.”

And Geralt would smile. He’d kiss the bard’s forehead, both of his cheeks, the tip of his nose, and he’d reply - 

“Better. So much better.” 

What did not change was this; the tapestry of love, and family, and heartbreak, and tragedy, and joy, and humour, and hardship, and peace that they wove between them. 

What did not change was the warmth in Geralt’s heart, and the light in Jaskier’s eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so many thoughts about modern day fae!Jaskier.


	22. Post Credit Scene

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The very beginning.

Being twenty five, Julian thought, was probably the most fun he’d ever had. Granted, he’d thought that about being twenty four, and being twenty three, and hell, he could remember being nine years old and wondering how life could possibly be any more fun. Yet every year, things just seemed to get better. 

But being twenty five… there was something about it, something that screamed to be savoured and enjoyed. The freedom of being done with school, the experience and savviness that the years since had brought. Giving the odd lecture at his alma mater gave him purpose. His parents - though begrudging - still indulged his finer sensibilities, and had not yet begun to pester him about settling down into his inheritance. 

Marriage, employment, grey hairs and aching bones were things that followed him around like his own personal dark cloud these days. Julian knew they were all things he’d have to start thinking about sooner rather than later. His fate, picked out for him by tradition, lay folded neatly at the foot of his bed. 

Perhaps knowing it would all end soon made it sweeter. The end coming into sight just round the bend was simply all the more reason to relish every second, to live his wonderful life to the fullest. 

As regrets went, Julian far preferred to regret foolish action, rather than anxious inaction. 

So he went to bed as often as he could help it with a head full of fog and wine, his arms wrapped around someone beautiful, and his heart swelling with song. He composed, and he sang, and he fucked, and he drank, and he bought pretty things on flights of fancy with his parents’ money. 

Yes, twenty five was wonderful. He wished it never had to end. 

In the twilight of that dazzling year, the second to last full moon before Julian’s twenty sixth birthday, something extraordinary happened. 

Julian had an admirer.

This in itself was not extraordinary. Make no mistake, Julain’s life was punctuated thoroughly by lovers. He’d never in his life wanted for praise, nor affection, for more than a short time before he found someone enthusiastically willing to indulge him. No, to have an admirer was not odd.

What was peculiar about this woman was that she would not allow him to draw near to her. She watched him, silent as a ghost and just as otherworldly. She would sit in the corner of a bar, eyes unerring and unblinking as he performed, but disappear the instant he made to approach. Julian would see her, sitting cross-legged in the treeline as he rehearsed and composed in the overgrown back garden of his parent’s house. She’d vanish among the greenery if he even dared take a step in her direction. 

This went on for a good month, and Julian, not being naturally inclined towards either patience or restraint, grew bored of the woman’s games. Whether she wanted him or not was really not any business of his until she decided in the affirmative, and so it would do him no good to wait around like a nun until she made up her mind. 

Julian took lovers, as he always had and always would. But now, under the mysterious woman’s watchful, ever-present eye, each one seemed to roll out of his bed and into some great misfortune. Whether a death in the family, illness, injury, financial ruin, or natural disaster, terrible things happened to each and every one of his paramours. Rumour quickly spread of a curse, and for the first time in his life, Julian felt starved of affection. 

And so, on the eve of his twenty sixth birthday, poor Julian found himself watching the rising moon through the window of his parents’ kitchen. A half empty bottle of wine passed for a companion, his own gentle humming and the chirping of cicadas the only sound. 

It was thoroughly un-raucous, he wasn’t getting even a little debauched, and he was barely even drunk. Twenty six, Julian thought, was off to a rough start. 

He sat at the long wood table in the center of the room, perched atop a stool that was a little too small to offer any real comfort. The big, open windows in front of him let the low periwinkle light of twilight stream in, along with a breeze that was just enough to dry the tiny beads of sweat on his upper lip. The solstice was only a few days out, and the temperature had turned from fair to warm in preparation of her arrival.

Julian leaned forward on his elbows, ignoring the way his left arm was slowly going a little numb from the pressure. The prickling pins and needles were almost comforting. His right hand was curled around the neck of the wine bottle. 1042 - it had been a good year. Julian remembered not only the fine wines, but the fine farmhand he’d encountered on the vineyard tour he and his family had taken in Toussaint that year. He lifted it to his lips, tipped it back, and drank his fill. He felt the liquid run from the corner of his mouth, down his chin and drip onto his chest, and knew he’d ruined another undershirt. 

There was a sound then - an interruption to the subdued and peaceful quiet of the warm evening. Julian turned his head left to the kitchen door whose rusted old hinges had cried out. Standing in the frame, hand still grasping the latch, was the woman. 

It was the first time he’d seen her up close, and he was not disappointed. She was tall, willowy and lithe. She moved like a dancer, raising her slim, pale hand and beckoning him forth. Her red hair swayed in the breeze, tickling the backs of her knees, and her eyes were far more vivid green than any emerald he’d seen. Her features were fine and sharp, and very beautiful. 

Julian rose from the uncomfortable stool, keeping his grip on the wine bottle. He stepped towards her, reaching out to meet the invitation of her waiting hand. She sighed with pleasure as their hands met. 

She said nothing, but cast a glance over her shoulder at the garden, then arched a perfect eyebrow at him. 

Julian nodded, stunned silent for perhaps the first time in his life. He lifted her knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft, chaste kiss there, then guided her out the kitchen door, fastening the latch behind himself. His mother would be awfully angry were she to wake and find that the door had been open all night, inviting the rabble in to come and steal from them. Julian did not anticipate returning home before morning. 

Among the wildflowers in the overgrown garden, vibrantly blue forget-me-nots and cheerful yellow buttercups, the woman looked at home. She belonged to the wild, a child of Dana Meadbh - a ballad simply begging to be written. Julian grinned at her in the stupid, bald-faced fashion that charmed women, a sort of open sincerity written over his boyish features that they tended to find endearing. 

The woman smiled back, just as openly and plainly, showing her teeth. Julian was fairly certain that a person did not have that many teeth, but knew not enough about the practice of dental medicine to be able to find any specific abnormality with her smile. All the same, he was unnerved. 

Not unnerved enough to turn tail and condemn himself to solitude for the night mind you, but certainly unnerved enough to take a long drink from the bottle still clutched in his hand. 

“What’s your name, darling?” he asked after he had swallowed. 

Something flashed in her emerald eyes, hot and dangerous. A warning. 

“Ask me that again, and I’ll cut the tongue from your pretty head,” she replied, and her voice was perhaps the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard. It was the sound of the sweetest flute, a high, clear soprano that pierced his heart, drove him to weep and compose. He wanted to write harmonies for the two of them to share - duets that would go on for hours without stopping, accompanied by lutes and harps and horns, all manned by players who would never tire. He wanted to invent new kinds of music for her to sing. 

But he’d offended her! Oh, how he’d offended her. Julian was a fool, a presumptuous fool. He dropped to one knee in front of her, bowing his head in remorse. 

“Forgive me,” he pleaded, “Forgive me, please.”

“Stand,” she commanded him, and he obliged immediately, scrambling back to his feet.

“I’ve never heard a human sing so sweetly as you,” she said, tilting her head. Her mass of red hair moved like the ocean, swaying and rippling in the breeze, the colour of vivid sunset reflected against a breaking wave. 

Julian felt his cheeks and the tips of his ears flush a deep red, and bowed his head again.

“I thank you, dear lady. You honour me,” he said, lifting her hand to kiss it again. 

She giggled, a melodious sound that sent a shiver of pleasure rolling through Julian’s entire body. If he’d died on that very spot, in that very second - he’d have died a happy man having heard that sound, and what’s more, having been the one to coax it from her lovely pink lips. 

He wanted her. Wanted to know, to see  _ all _ of her, find out what other lovely sounds he could draw out, all the ways her slender limbs would bend and twist around him as he pleased her. Julian drew close to her, lifting his fingers tentatively to tuck a lock of her hair behind her lovely ear, knuckles brushing past the bare point at the tip. 

“I’ll keep you, I think,” the woman crooned, curling her arms around his shoulders, “My lovely musician, mine forever.”

Julian barely registered the words, as her chest pressed to his, and she drew so close that he could smell the scent of spring rain on her perfect skin. 

Twenty six was turning out to be alright after all. 

“Will you let me?” she whispered the question in his ear, nipping at the lobe.

Julian nodded an emphatic yes, yes, a thousand times yes. 

“What is your name?” she asked.

He took a shuddering breath, “Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, at your most humble service, my dear lady,” he answered. 

“Julian,” she repeated, singing the word. Julian’s legs nearly buckled beneath him at the sound. 

A sort of static feeling settled over the garden, the flowers once ankle-high had come to brush at his knees, and the twilight burned gold and violet, too vibrant. The woman parted from him, bending just slightly to pick one of the tiny blue flowers growing between them. There was, too, a long branch in her hand. He hadn’t seen her pick it up, but surely she must have. He would have noticed that, wouldn’t he? 

The woman tapped one long finger on his lips, and he opened them in an instant. She placed the flower on his tongue, and then - 

Pain, like he’d never known in his life shot through him, beginning in his chest and spreading to every extremity. Julian cried out, voice cracking and breaking and ugly. The woman clamped a hand over his mouth, and drove the branch deeper into his heart. She was killing him, why was she killing him? What had he done? He had - he couldn’t remember what he’d done. All of it was fading, he was fading. Dying, surely. His breathing soon would falter and halt, and he’d be dead in the garden. Whose garden, he wondered? They surely ought to hire someone to put it to rights, waist-high wildflowers simply wouldn’t do. There was a bottle in his hand, how had that gotten there? He dropped it, the deep purple liquid spilling over the soil. 

He blinked. There was a beautiful woman in front of him, hands empty and reaching for him. Instinct compelled him - he went to her, took her into his arms. 

“What is your name?” she asked. 

He scowled. His name, surely he had a name? Everyone had a name, how strange that he didn’t. His eyes darted about the garden, landing on the little yellow flowers that were all around. 

“Jaskier,” he said, “My name is Jaskier, dear lady.”

* * *

From ch15: "Geralt would fish, Luka stuck fast to his side asking endless questions and telling nonsensical stories. He crafted for the boy a fishing pole of his own, short enough that he wouldn’t be overwhelmed by it - and light enough that if he decided to attack his brother with it, no real damage could be done. This proved to be intelligent thinking on Geralt’s part."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t have the words to express just what the love and support I’ve received from you guys has meant over these past few months. Thank you. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. Thank you to those who’ve read from the beginning, those who’ve only recently decided to give it a shot, those who’ve left comments and kudos, and thank you to those who’ve rec’d this fic over on tumblr. I am truly grateful. I feel so honoured and humbled to be able to create content for this fandom, which I think is easily the kindest and sweetest one I’ve ever been lucky enough to call myself a part of. 
> 
> Thank you for taking this journey with me. I love you all more than I can say.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on tumblr @tristranthorne!! I don't post a lot of witcher/fandomy stuff but I'd love to be buds!!


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